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Or very lucky.

‘You look gorgeous!’

Petra Radnor laughed aside the fervent compliment from Nikator Lukas.

‘Thank you, brother dear,’ she said.

‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your brother.’

‘You will be in a couple of hours, when your father has married my mother.’

‘Stepbrother at most. We won’t be related by blood and I can yearn after you if I want to.’

‘No, I think you’ll be the brother I’ve always wanted. My kid brother.’

‘Kid, nothing! I’m older than you.’

It was true. He was thirty-seven to her thirty-two, but there was something about him that suggested a kid; not just the boyish lines of his face but a lingering immaturity that would probably be there all his life.

Petra liked him well enough, except for his black moods that seemed to come from nowhere, although they also vanished quickly.

He admired her extravagantly, and she justified his admiration. The gaunt figure of her teen years had blossomed, although she would always be naturally slender.

She was attractive but not beautiful, certainly not as the word was understood among her mother’s film-land friends. She had a vivid personality that gleamed from her eyes and a humour that was never long suppressed. But the true effect was often discovered only after she’d departed, when she lingered in the mind.

To divert Nikator’s attention, she turned the conversation to Debra, the starlet who would be his official companion.

‘You two look wonderful together,’ she said. ‘Everyone will say what a lucky man you are.’

‘I’d rather go with you,’ he sighed.

‘Oh, stop it! After all the trouble Estelle took to fix you up with her, you should be grateful.’

‘Debra’s gorgeous,’ he conceded. ‘At least Demetriou won’t have anything to match her.’

‘Demetriou? Do you mean Lysandros Demetriou?’ Petra asked, suddenly concentrating on a button. ‘The Lysandros Demetriou?’

‘There’s no need to say it like that, as though he was important,’ Nikator said at once.

‘He certainly seems to be. Didn’t he—?’

‘Never mind that. He probably won’t have a woman on his arm.’

‘I’ve heard he has quite a reputation with women.’

‘True. But he never takes them out in public. Too much hassle, I guess. To him they’re disposable. I’ll tell you this, half the women who come here today will have been in his bed.’

‘You really hate him, don’t you?’ she asked curiously.

‘Years ago he was involved with a girl from this family, but he ill-treated her.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know the details. Nobody does.’

‘Then maybe she ill-treated him,’ Petra suggested. ‘And he reacted badly because he was disillusioned.’

He glared at her. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, suddenly confused. A voice had whispered mysteriously in her mind, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. It came from long ago, and haunted her across the years. If only—

She tried to listen but now there was only silence.

‘She fled, and later we heard that she was dead,’ Nikator continued. ‘It was years ago, but he knew how to put the knife in, even then. Be warned. When he knows you’re connected with this family he’ll try to seduce you, just to show us that he can do it.’

‘Seduce?’ she echoed with hilarity. ‘What do you think I am—some helpless maiden? After all this time around the film industry I’ve learned to be safely cynical, I promise you. I’ve even been known to do a bit of “seducing” myself.’

His eyes gleamed and he reached out hopeful hands. ‘Ah, in that case—’

‘Be off,’ she told him firmly. ‘It’s time you left to collect Debra.’

He dashed away, much to her relief. There were aspects of Nikki that were worrying, but that must wait. This was supposed to be a happy day.

She checked her camera. There would be an army of professional photographers here today, but Estelle, as she always called her mother, had asked her to take some intimate family pictures.

She took one last look in the mirror, then frowned at what she saw. As Nikator had said, she looked gorgeous, but what might be right for other women wasn’t right for Estelle Radnor’s daughter. This was the bride’s big day, and she alone must occupy the spotlight.

‘Something a little more restrained, I think,’Petra murmured.

She found a darker dress, plainer, more puritanical. Then she swept her luxuriant hair back into a bun and studied herself again.

‘That’s better. Nobody will look at me now.’

She’d grown up making these adjustments to her mother’s ego. It was no longer a big deal. She was fond of Estelle, but the centre of her life was elsewhere.

The bride had already moved into the great mansion, and now occupied the suite belonging to the mistress of the house. Petra hurried along to say a last encouraging word before it was time to start.

That was when things went wrong.

Estelle screamed when she saw her daughter.

‘Darling, what are you thinking of to dress like that? You look like a Victorian governess.’

Petra, who was used to her mother’s way of putting things, didn’t take offence. She knew by now that it was pointless.

‘I thought I’d keep it plain,’ she said. ‘You’re the one they’ll be looking at. And you look absolutely wonderful. You’ll be the most beautiful bride ever.’

‘But people know you’re my daughter,’ Estella moaned. ‘If you go out there looking middle-aged, what will they say about me?’

‘Perhaps you could pretend I’m not your daughter,’ Petra said with wry good humour.

‘It’s too late for that. They already know. You’ve got to look young and innocent or they’ll wonder how old I am. Really, darling, you might try to do me credit.’

‘I’m sorry. Shall I go and change?’

‘Yes, do it quickly. And take your hair down.’

‘All right, I’ll change. Have a wonderful day.’

She kissed her mother and felt herself embraced as warmly as though there’d never been an argument. Which, in a sense, was true. Having got her own way, Estelle had forgotten it had ever happened.

As she left the room Petra was smiling, thinking it lucky that she had a sense of humour. Thirty-two years as Estelle Radnor’s daughter had had certain advantages, but they had also demanded reserves of patience.

Back in her room, she reversed the changes, donning the elegantly simple blue silk dress she’d worn before and brushing her hair free so that it fell gloriously about her shoulders. Then she went out into the grounds where the crowds were gathering and plunged into introductions. She smiled and said the right things, but part of her attention was elsewhere, scanning the men to see if Lysandros Demetriou had arrived.

The hour they had spent together, long ago, now felt like a dream, but he’d always held her interest. She’d followed his career as far as she could, gathering the sparse details of his life that seeped out. He was unmarried and, since his father’s death had made him the boss of Demetriou Shipbuilding, he lived alone. That was all the world was allowed to know.

Occasionally she saw a photograph that she could just identify as the man she’d met in Las Vegas. These days his face looked fearsome, but now another face came into her mind, a naïve, disillusioned young lover, tortured out of his mind, crying, ‘She made me trust her,’ as though that was the worst crime in the world.

The recent pictures showed a man on whom harshness had settled early. It was hard to realise that he was the same person who’d clung to her on that high roof, seeking refuge, not from the physical danger he’d freely courted, but from the demons that howled in his head.

What had become of that need and despair? Had he yielded to the desire to destroy everything, including his own heart?

What would he say to her if they met now?

Petra was no green girl. Nor was she a prude. In the years since then she’d been married, divorced, and enjoyed male company to the full. But that encounter, short but searingly intense, lived in her mind, her heart and her senses. The awareness of an overwhelming presence was with her still, and so was the disappointment she’d felt when he’d parted from her with only the lightest touch of the lips.

Now the thought of meeting Lysandros Demetriou again gave her a frisson of pleasurable curiosity and excitement. But strangely there was also a touch of nervousness. He’d loomed so large in her imagination that she feared lest the reality disappoint her.

Then she saw him.

She was standing on the slope, watching the advancing crowd, and even among so many it was easy to discern him. It wasn’t just that he was taller than most men; it was the same intense quality that had struck her so forcefully the first time, and which now seemed to sing over the distance.

The pictures hadn’t done him justice, she realised. The boy had grown into a handsome man whose stern features, full of pride and aloofness, would have drawn eyes anywhere. In Las Vegas she’d seen him mostly in poor light. Now she could make out that his eyes were dark and deep-set, as though even there he was holding part of himself back.

Nikator had said no woman would be with him, and that was true. Lysandros Demetriou walked alone. Even in that milling crowd he gave the impression that nobody could get anywhere near him. Occasionally someone tried to claim his attention. He replied briefly and passed on.

The photographer in Petra smiled. Here was a man whose picture would be worth taking, and if that displeased him at first he would surely forgive her, for the sake of their old acquaintance.

She took a picture, then another. Smiling, she began to walk down until she was only a few feet in front of him. He glanced up, noticed the camera and scowled.

‘Put that away,’ he said.

‘But—’

‘And get out of my sight.’

Before she could speak again he’d passed on. Petra was left alone, her smile fading as she realised that he’d looked right through her without a hint of recognition.

There was nothing to do but move on with the crowd and take her place in the temple. She tried to shrug and reason with herself. So he hadn’t recognised her! So what? It had been years ago and she’d changed a lot.

But, she thought wryly, she could dismiss any fantasies about memories reaching over time. Instead, it might be the chance to have a little fun.

Yes, fun would be good. Fun would punish him!

The music started as the bride made her entrance, magnificently attired in fawn satin, looking nowhere near fifty, her true age.

Petra joined the other photographers, and forgot everything except what she was meant to be doing. It was an ability that had carried her through some difficult times in her life.

Lysandros was seated in the front row. He frowned at her as if trying to work something out, then turned his attention to the ceremony.

The vows were spoken in Greek. The bride had learned her part well, but there was just one moment when she hesitated. Quickly, Petra moved beside her, murmured something in Greek and stepped back. Lysandros, watching, frowned again.

Then the bride and groom were moving slowly away, smiling at the crowd, two wealthy, powerful people, revelling in having acquired each other. Everyone began to leave the temple.

‘Lysandros, my friend, how good to see you.’

He turned and saw Nikator advancing on him, arms outstretched as though welcoming a long-lost friend. Assuming a smile, he returned the greeting. With a flourish Nikator introduced his companion, Debra Farley. Lysandros acted suitably impressed. This continued until everyone felt that enough time had elapsed, and then the couple moved on.

Lysandros took a long breath of relief at having got that out of the way.

A slight choke made him turn and see the young woman with the luscious fair hair. She was laughing as though he’d just performed for her entertainment, and he was suddenly gripped by a rising tension, neither pleasure nor pain but a mysterious combination of both, as though the world had shifted on its axis and nothing would ever be the same again.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU did that very convincingly,’ Petra said. ‘You should get an Oscar.’

She’d spoken in Greek and he replied in the same language.

‘I wasn’t as convincing as all that if you saw through me.

’ ‘Oh, I automatically disbelieve everyone,’ she said in a teasing voice. ‘It saves a lot of time.’

He gave a polite smile. ‘How wise. You’re used to this kind of event, then? Do you work for Homer?’ He indicated her camera.

‘No, I’ve only recently met him.’

‘What do you think of him?’

‘I’ve never seen a man so in love.’ She shook her head, as if suggesting that this passed all understanding.

‘Yes, it’s a pity,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t think the bride’s in love with him, surely? To her, he’s a decoration to flaunt in her buttonhole, in addition to the diamonds he’s showered on her. The best of her career is over so she scoops him up to put on her mantelpiece. It almost makes me feel sorry for him, and I never thought I’d say that.’

‘But that means someone has brought him low at last,’ she pointed out. ‘You should be grateful to her. Think how much easier you’ll find it to defeat him in future.’

She was regarding him with her head on one side and an air of detached amusement, as though he was an interesting specimen laid out for her entertainment. A sudden frisson went through him. He didn’t understand why, and yet—

‘I think I can manage that without help,’ he observed.

‘Now, there’s a thought,’ she said, apparently much struck. ‘Have you noticed how weddings bring out the worst in people? I’m sure you aren’t usually as cynical and grumpy as now.’

This was sheer impertinence, but instead of brushing her aside he felt an unusual inclination to spar with her.

‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘I’m usually worse.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Anyone who knows me will tell you that this is my “sweetness and light” mood.’

‘I don’t believe it. Instinct tells me that you’re a softie at heart. People cry on your shoulder, children flock to you, those in trouble turn to you first.’

‘I’ve done nothing to deserve that,’ he assured her fervently.

The crowd was swirling around them, forcing them to move aside. As they left the temple, Lysandros observed, ‘I’m surprised Homer settled for an imitation Parthenon.’

‘Oh, he wanted the original,’ she agreed, ‘but between you and me—’ she lowered her voice dramatically ‘—it didn’t quite measure up to his standards, and he felt he could do better. So he built this to show them how it ought to have been done.’

Before he could stop himself he gave a crack of laughter and several people stared at the sight of this famously dour man actually enjoying a joke. A society journalist passing by stared, then made a hasty note.

She responded to his laughter with more of her own. He led her to where the drinks were being served and presented her with a glass of champagne, feeling that, just for once, it was good to be light-hearted. She had the power of making tension vanish, even if only briefly.

The tables for the wedding feast were outside in the sun. The guests were taking their places, preparing for the moment when the newly married couple would appear.

‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said.

‘Just a minute. You haven’t told me who you are.’

She glanced back, regarding him with a curious smile. ‘No, I haven’t, have I? Perhaps I thought there would be no need. I’ll see you later.’

Briefly she raised her champagne glass to him before hurrying away.

‘You’re a sly devil,’ said a deep voice behind him.

A large bearded man stood there and with pleasure Lysandros recognised an old ally.

‘Georgios,’ he exclaimed. ‘I might have known you’d be where there was the best food.’

‘The best food, the best wine, the best women. Well, you’ve found that for yourself.’ He indicated the young woman’s retreating figure.

‘She’s charming,’ Lysandros said with a slight reserve. He didn’t choose to discuss her.

‘Oh, don’t worry, I’ll back off. I don’t aspire to Estelle Radnor’s daughter.’

Lysandros tensed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I don’t blame you for wanting to keep her to yourself. She’s a peach.’

‘You said Estelle Radnor’s daughter.’

‘Didn’t she tell you who she was?’

‘No,’ Lysandros said, tight-lipped. ‘She didn’t.’

He moved away in Petra’s direction, appalled at the trap into which he’d fallen so easily. His comments about her mother had left him at a disadvantage, something not to be tolerated. She could have warned him and she hadn’t, which meant she was laughing at him.

And most men would have been beguiled by her merriment, her way of looking askance, as though that was how she saw the whole world, slightly lopsided, and all the more fun for that.

Fun. He barely knew the word, but something told him she knew it, loved it, even judged by it. And she was doubtless judging him now. His face hardened.

It was too late to catch her; she’d reached the top table where the bride and groom would sit. Now there would be no chance for a while.

A steward showed him to his place, also at the top table but just around the corner at right angles to her—close enough to see her perfectly, but not talk.

She was absorbed in chatting to her companion. Suddenly she laughed, throwing back her head and letting her amusement soar up into the blue sky. It was as though sunshine had burst out all over the world. Unwillingly he conceded that she would be enchanting, if—if he’d been in a mood to be enchanted. Fortunately, he was more in control than that.

Then she looked up and caught his eye. Clearly she knew that her little trick had been rumbled, for her teasing gaze said, Fooled you!

He sent back a silent message of his own. Wait, that’s all. Just wait!

She looked forward to it. Her smile told him that, causing a stirring deep within him that he had to conceal by fiercely blanking his face. People sitting close by drew back a little, wondering who had offended him.

There was a distant cheer and applause broke out as Mr and Mrs Homer Lukas made their grand entrance.

He was in his sixties, grey-haired and heavily built with an air of natural command. But as he and his bride swept into place it suited him to bend his head over her hand, kissing it devotedly. She seemed about to faint with joy at his tribute, or perhaps at the five million dollar diamond on her finger.

The young woman who’d dared to tease Lysandros joined in the applause, and kissed her mother as Estelle sat down. The crowd settled to the meal.

Of course he should never have mistaken her for an employee. Her air of being at home in this company ought to have warned him. And when she moved in to take close-up photographs both bride and groom posed at her command.

Then she posed with the happy couple while a professional photographer took the shots. At this point Nikator butted in.

‘We must have some of us together,’ Lysandros could just hear him cry. ‘Brother and sister.’

Having claimed a brother’s privilege, he snaked an arm about her waist and drew her close. She played up, but Lysandros spotted a fleeting look of exasperation on her face, and she freed herself as soon as possible, handing him back to Debra Farley like a nurse ridding herself of a pesky child.

Not that he could blame Nikator for his preference. In that glamorous company this creature stood out, with her effortless simplicity and an air of naturalness that the others had lost long ago. Her dress was light blue silk, sleeveless, figure-hugging, without ornament. It was practically a proclamation, as though she were saying, I need no decoration. I, myself, am enough.

No doubt about that.

As the party began to break up he made his way over to her. She was waiting for him with an air of teasing expectancy.

‘I suppose that’ll teach me to be more careful next time,’ he said wryly.

‘You were a little incautious, weren’t you?’

‘You thought it was a big joke not to tell me who you were while I said those things about your mother.’

‘I didn’t force you to say them. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you take a joke?’

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I don’t find it funny at all.’

She frowned a little, as though confronting an alien species. ‘Do you find anything funny—ever?’

‘No. It’s safer that way.’

Her humour vanished. ‘You poor soul.’

She sounded as though she meant it, and the hint of sympathy took him aback. It was so long since anyone had dared to pity him, or at least dared to show it. Not since another time—another world—long ago…

An incredible suspicion briefly troubled his mind. He ordered it gone and it obeyed, but reluctantly.

‘If you feel I insulted your mother, I apologise,’he said stiffly.

‘Actually, it’s me you insulted.’

‘I don’t see how.’

She looked into his face with a mixture of incredulity, indignation, but mostly amusement.

‘You really don’t, do you?’ she asked. ‘All this time and you still haven’t—you really haven’t—? Well, let me tell you, when you meet a lady for the second time, it’s considered polite to remember the first time.’

‘For the second—? Have we ever—have we—?’

And then the suspicion wouldn’t be banished any longer. He knew.

‘It was you,’ he said slowly. ‘On the roof—in Las Vegas—’

‘Boy, I really lived in your memory, didn’t I?’

‘But—you’re different—not the same person.’

‘I should hope not, after all this time. I’m the same in some ways, not others. You’re different too, but you’re easier to spot. I was longing for you to recognise me, but you didn’t.’ She

sighed theatrically. ‘Hey ho! What a disappointment!’

‘You didn’t care if I recognised you or not,’ he said flatly.

‘Well, maybe just a little.’

An orchestra was getting into place and the dancing area was being cleared, so that they had to move to the side.

He was possessed by a strange feeling, of having wandered into an alien world where nothing was quite as it looked. She had sprung out of the past, landing in his path, challenging him with memories and fears.

‘Even now I can’t believe that it’s you,’ he said. ‘Your hair’s different—it was cut very short—’

‘Functional,’ she said at once. ‘I was surrounded by film people making the best of themselves, so I made the least of myself as an act of adolescent defiance.’

‘Was that all you could think of?’

‘Consider my problem,’ she said with an expansive gesture. ‘The average teenager goes wild, indulges herself with wine, late nights, lovers—but everyone around me was doing that. I’d never have been noticed. So I cut my hair as badly as possible, bought cheap clothes, studied my school books and had early nights. Heavens, was I virtuous! Boring but virtuous.’

‘And what happened?’ he asked, fascinated.

She chuckled. ‘My mother started to get very worried about my “strange behaviour”. It took her a while to accept the fact that I was heading for the academic life.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I’ve made my career out of ancient Greece. I write books, I give lectures. I pretend to know a lot more than I actually do—’

‘Like most of them,’ he couldn’t resist saying.

‘Like most of them,’ she agreed at once.

‘Is your mother reconciled?’

‘Oh, yes, she’s terribly impressed now. She came to one of my lectures and afterwards she said, “Darling that was wonderful! I didn’t understand a word.” That’s her yardstick, bless her. And in the end it was me who introduced her to Homer.’ She looked around. ‘So you could say I’m to blame for all this.’

It was time for the dancing. Homer and Estelle took the floor, gliding about in each other’s arms until the photographers had all had their fill.

‘Aren’t you taking any pictures?’ he asked.

‘No, mine’s just the personal family stuff. What they’re doing now is for the public.’

Nikator waved as he danced past with Debra in his arms. Petra sighed.

‘He may be in his late thirties but he’s just a silly kid at heart. What it’ll be like when he takes over the firm I can’t—’ She broke off guiltily, her hand over her mouth. ‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Don’t worry. You didn’t say anything the whole world doesn’t already know. It’s interesting that you’re learning already.’

There was a sardonic edge to his voice, and she didn’t have to ask what he meant. The two great families of Greek shipbuilding survived by getting the edge on each other, and inevitably that included spying. The kind of casual comment that others could risk might be dangerous.

The dance ended and another one began. Debra vanished in the arms of a powerful producer, and Nikator made his way in Petra’s direction.

‘Oh, heavens, dance with me!’ she breathed, seizing Lysandros and drawing him onto the floor.

‘What are you—?’ Somehow he found his arms around her.

‘Yes, I know, in polite society I’m supposed to wait for you to ask me,’ she muttered, ‘but this isn’t polite society, it’s a goldfish bowl.’

He felt she couldn’t have put it better.

‘But your fears may be misplaced,’ he pointed out. ‘With you being so boring and virtuous he probably wasn’t going to ask you at all.’

‘He has peculiar tastes.’ She added hurriedly, ‘And I didn’t say that, either.’

She was like quicksilver in his arms, twisting and turning against him, leading him on so that he moved in perfect time with her and had to fight an impulse to tighten his grip, draw her against his body and let things happen as they would. Not here. Not now. Not yet.

Petra read him fairly accurately, and something thrilled in her blood.

‘Don’t you like dancing?’ she asked after a while.

‘This isn’t dancing. It’s swimming around that goldfish bowl.’

‘True. But we annoyed Nikator, which is something gained.’

She was right. Nikator’s expression was that of a child whose toys had been snatched away. Then Lysandros forgot everything except Petra. Her face was close to his and the smile in her eyes reached him directly.

‘What will you do after this?’ he asked.

‘Stay here for a few days, or weeks. It’s a chance for me to do some research. Homer has great contacts. There’s a museum vault that’s never opened for anyone, but he’s fixing it for me.’

He glanced down at the slender, sensual body moving in his arms, at the charming face that seemed to smile more naturally than any other expression, and the blue eyes with their mysterious, tantalising depths, and he knew a sense of outrage. What was this woman doing in museums, investigating the dead, when everything in her spoke of life? She belonged not in tombs but in sunlight, not turning dusty pages but caressing a man’s face and pressing her naked body against his.

The mere thought of her nakedness made him draw a sharp breath. The dress fitted her closely enough to give him a good idea of her contours, but it only tempted him to want more. He controlled his thoughts by force.

‘Is visiting museums really your idea of being lucky?’ he asked slowly.

‘I’m going to see things that other scholars have been struggling to see for years. I’ll be ahead of the game.’

‘But isn’t there anything else you want to do?’ he asked.

‘You mean, what’s a woman doing worrying her little head about such things? Women are made for pleasure; serious matters should be left to men.’

Since this came dangerously near to his actual thoughts he was left floundering for a moment. He wished she hadn’t used the word ‘pleasure’. It was a distraction he could do without.

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he managed to say at last, ‘but when life offers you so many more avenues—’

‘Like Nikator? Yes, I could throw myself into his arms, or anything else he wanted me to throw myself into—careful!’

‘Sorry,’ he said hastily, loosing his fingers, which he’d tightened against her instinctively.

‘Where was I? Ah, yes, exploring avenues.’

‘Forget Nikator,’ he snapped. ‘He’s not an avenue, he’s a dead end.’

‘Yes, I’d managed to work that out for myself. I’m not seventeen any more. I’m thirty-two, in my dotage.’

In her dotage, he thought ironically, with skin like soft peach, hair like silk and eyes that teased, inviting him just so far and warning him against going any further. But she was right about one thing. She was no child. She’d been around long enough to discover a good deal about men, and he had an uneasy feeling that she could read more about him than he wanted her—or anyone—to know.

‘If you’re fishing for compliments you picked the wrong man,’ he said.

‘Oh, sure, I’d never come to you for sweet nothings, or for anything except—yes, that would be something—’ She hesitated, as though trying to phrase it carefully. ‘Something you could give me better than any other man,’ she whispered at last.

He struggled not to say the words, but they came out anyway. ‘And what’s that?’

‘Good financial advice,’ she declared. ‘Aha! There, I did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘I made you laugh.’

‘I’m not laughing,’ he said through twitching lips.

‘You would be if you weren’t trying so hard not to. I bet myself I could make you laugh. Be nice. Give me my little victory.’

‘I’m never nice. But I’ll let you have it this once.’

‘Only this once?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘I prefer to claim victory for myself.’

‘I could take that as a challenge.’

Then there was silence as their bodies moved in perfect time, and she thought that yes, he was a challenge, and what a challenge he would be; so different from the easy-going men with whom she’d mostly spent her life. There was a darkness about him that he made little attempt to hide, and which tempted her, although she knew she was probably crazy.

‘Do your challenges usually work out as you plan?’ he asked.