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Lorcan found it difficult to concentrate on driving, with the breeze wafting tiny plumes of Titian hair about her face like that. Luckily the drive was short, and soon they were angling over the hump-backed bridge that preceded the Inn.

He'd booked an outdoor table, and as they were led to it, the sound of the weir on the river filled the air with the pagan roar of rushing water. They sat at the table, tucked away in a little bower of fragrant honeysuckle and pastel-pink clematis. ‘Would you care for a drink, sir?' the waiter murmured discreetly.

‘Thank you,' Lorcan said casually. ‘Scotch and water for me and . . .' he looked at Frederica, whose mind went promptly blank. He saw the brief look of consternation cross her face and added smoothly, ‘A glass of Pinot Grigio for Miss Delacroix.'

Frederica found that her white wine, when it came, was delicious. Dry but refreshing, and, somehow, just right. But then, she thought, with a touch of asperity, what else could she have expected from a man like this? The words ‘suave' and ‘charming' in the dictionary probably had his picture beside them.

‘I was never a student myself,' Lorcan surprised her by saying, ‘so it's easy for me to forget how different your lifestyles must be. If you don't like the drink, I can easily get you something else.'

Frederica
shook her head and reached for her glass defensively. ‘No! This is . . . perfect.'

He can read me like a book, Frederica thought despairingly. Which, considering she was in the process of forging a Forbes-Wright, didn't bode too well for her immediate future.

Lorcan's smile was a touch knowing as he watched her sip, but he quickly became fascinated by her moist, trembling lips. He imagined himself kissing them, anticipating the slight clingingness of the lipstick, the taste of the woman beneath.

Frederica quickly looked away. The river flowing past them was filled with trout, and when the waiter brought a basket of bread rolls, she began to feed them, almost without thinking.

The sun was lowering behind the screen of trees, casting the Trout Inn in an early twilight glow. A waiter came and lit the candles, but she was unaware of the way the candlelight transformed her face, catching the dancing lights in her hair, darkening her eyes to a mysterious midnight, and complimenting the downy peach bloom on her cheeks. Lorcan, however, was only too well aware of it, and found himself dragging in a suddenly much-needed breath. This was getting out of hand.

So far, all the forgers he'd helped put behind bars had been men. The thought of persecuting a young, beautiful girl, was distinctly unappealing—which was why he'd
decided
to use tonight to scare her off. ‘So,' he said, ‘tell me about yourself.' He crossed his legs casually and gave her a smile that curled her toes. ‘I understand your family has quite a reputation as collectors,' he added pointedly.

Frederica tensed, visibly. ‘Oh?' she swallowed a sudden dryness in her throat. ‘How did you . . . ?'

‘I'd heard of your family,' he said, with perfect truthfulness. When researching her, the name ‘Rainbow House', struck a chord. A friend of his had visited the place one summer, years ago. It had had some remarkable paintings, he'd told Lorcan—both extremely good, and extremely bad.

‘Oh,' Frederica said. ‘Yes, well, we've been collecting bits and pieces for centuries,' she admitted, shrugging modestly. ‘Dad's best find was a Pollock.'

She reached for her drink and sipped it again, desperately searching for another topic. ‘How are you finding Oxford?' she asked brightly, fixing a smile on her face. It was so bright it hurt her cheeks.

The waiter arrived with the menu just then, saving him from answering. Lorcan opted for a stuffed artichoke starter, and the Inn's speciality—fresh baked trout. Frederica chose a cheese soufflé and the lamb. When they were once more alone, Lorcan smiled at her across the candlelight, having thought of a nice little rejoinder to her question. ‘I'm beginning to
find
Oxford very interesting indeed,' he drawled dangerously. ‘There's so much going on here. Most of it under the surface.'

Was it his imagination, or did she look suddenly guilty then? ‘Oh, yes I suppose that's fair,' Frederica said gamely. ‘But you shouldn't neglect the obvious either. The museums for instance, are world class.'

‘I'm sure.' His green eyes looked wickedly amused. ‘But whenever I go into any museum I can't stop myself from looking for fakes,' he added, so silkily that she almost forgot to laugh. She felt her colour fade, rush back, and her hand shake. Then she remembered to laugh—as if he'd just told the best joke in the world. ‘Oh, I'm sure there aren't any in the Ashmolean,' she managed to choke.

This time there was no mistaking her unease. Dammit, he was right. Whatever Braine had sniffed out going on down here in Oxford, she was in it right up to her pretty swan-like neck. He wanted to reach across the table and shake her for being so stupid. But he restrained himself.

‘So, tell me about . . . er . . . your travels,' Frederica said hastily.

‘For a Fine Art student you seem determined to steer the talk away from art,' he couldn't resist the dig.

Frederica managed a sickly smile. ‘Oh well. who wants to talk shop all the time?'

The waiter's arrival with their first course
rescued
her, whilst Lorcan set himself out to be deliberately charming. He told her tales of Florence, and Venice in the rain; he talked about the perils of gallery ownership, and made her laugh with a tale about a visit to a Royal Garden Party, and the trouble the Ambassador of Spain had got into with one of the corgis. By the time the main course arrived, she was smiling and relaxing, and beginning to enjoy herself at last.

Lorcan supposed that it was now he should pounce. Ask her a very pointed question about the old-fashioned way she'd been cleaning the canvas, for instance. He was sure, suddenly, that she'd be unable to think of an excuse, and her face would pale, and those amazing pansy eyes of hers flood with fear and anger. But he didn't want to see those lovely eyes filled with either of those emotions, he realised grimly. Damn it, he didn't want her to be mixed up in anything illegal at all.

Which was patently a waste of time. For the first time ever, he'd wished that Detective Inspector Richard Braine had gone to somebody else with his knotty little Oxford problem.

He looked at her for a long time through the flickering candlelight, then he half-nodded.

Frederica had the strangest feeling he'd just come to some sort of an important conclusion, but how she knew this, she couldn't have said. She was developing instincts where this man
was
concerned, and the realisation of it was both alarming and exhilarating. ‘When you've finished your course here,' he said softly, caressing his wine glass in a way that made her jealous, ‘I'd like to buy some of your canvases. The harvest scene for one. Will you let me?' he added softly.

Frederica felt her breath catch. Would she let him? Being exhibited at the Greene Gallery would make her reputation overnight! Her face lit up.

Lorcan, once again, felt his breath catch. In the candle-light, her eyes glowed, and those lovely, ridiculous freckles marching across her nose just begged to be kissed, one by one . . .

‘Oh Lorcan—do you really think . . . ? Am I really good enough?'

He dragged his thoughts away from freckles and turned his attention back to the artist in front of him. ‘Yes,' he said simply. ‘You're good enough. All you have to do is stay true to yourself and your work. And, of course,' he added casually, ‘keep out of trouble. An artist, more than any other, lives and dies by his or her reputation.'

Just then, the sweet trolley came and, cursing the bad timing, he selected the cheese platter, whilst Frederica, in a suddenly buoyant mood, opted for the far more opulent and calorie-ridden raspberry meringue. When they were alone again, Lorcan leaned forward, determined to give her a way out. ‘You know,
unlike
most artists, you really have a bright future ahead of you. It won't just be me who'll want your work.'

Frederica nodded happily. ‘Thank you.'

Lorcan sighed. Had she taken the hint? He hoped so. Because, even for her, he could do no more. If Richard arrested her . . . then it would be the finish of her.

They lingered over their coffee and discussed her work and bright future as the last rays of the sun set behind Port Meadow. Lorcan drove them silently back towards the centre of town, but parked before they got to St Bede's. He turned, and found her eyes, which had been misty with happiness, suddenly wary. Once again it struck him how inexperienced she seemed. How innocent. It made him feel like a prize villain. And also, like a man who'd stumbled upon buried treasure.

‘I thought we'd walk back to College,' he said softly. ‘That is, if you don't mind a moonlit stroll?'

Frederica swallowed hard.
Mind . . . ?
The moon was full as they walked down the cherry-tree-lined pavements. Behind them, St Antony's College clock struck ten. Ahead of them, lit up with orange lights, the towers, crenellated walls and the fabled ‘dreaming spires' of Oxford shimmered in the evening heat. A single blackbird, fooled by the artificial light, sang mellifluously from the branches
overhead.

Lorcan reached for her hand, and Frederica's heart leapt. She could hardly feel the pavement beneath her feet as they headed back to St Bede's. They said little as they strolled together, and she was once again beginning to tense up, he noticed, as she led him to the main door of her residence.

Well . . .' She turned, not about to ask him in. ‘I . . .would you like to . . .'

Lorcan reached up and put a finger against her lips. ‘I won't come in,' he murmured softly. ‘Frederica, think about what I said tonight. You have a bright future—provided you don't do anything to jeopardise it.'

Frederica stiffened, for the first time really hearing the stark warning in his voice. What . . . ? How . . . ? And then his head was lowering. She had one brief, shattering instant to think ‘He's going to kiss me!' and then he was kissing her.

She swayed at the first contact of his lips on hers—warm, firm, gentle, and . . . oh so wonderful. Lorcan felt his arms slip around her waist. Felt himself pulling her to him. Some last vestige of self-protection warned him to stop, to push her away, but it was already too late. He felt her lips part pliantly beneath his. Heard her moan a soft, sighing sound of pleasure, and his own groaned answer.

Frederica felt her legs turn to water, and
was
glad when he held her tighter to him. Her head was literally spinning. She could sense every atom of their twin beings flow together—their breath merged, their scents, their senses, everything became a single entity. Her eyes closed as she felt his hands splay open against her back, his fingers warm against her spine.

And then he was moving back from her, slowly, oh-so-slowly, but leaving her. Their lips lingered together, parting millimetre by millimetre, until they eventually parted with a soft sigh of loss.

Lorcan took a ragged breath and a step back. He felt staggered. Shocked. Utterly shaken. He saw her open her eyes—those dark, velvety, midnight eyes, and shook his head.

It was madness. The whole thing was madness. He couldn't be falling in love. Not now! Not with this woman of all women!

‘Frederica,' he said softly. ‘Goodnight.' And goodbye, he added silently, with a pain as sharp as any he'd ever felt before. For he was, in that instant, utterly determined that he wouldn't be seeing her again.

Wouldn't
dare
see her again.

CHAPTER
NINE

Reeve hopped off the bus and made his way towards the rehearsal room, ignoring the many admiring female glances thrown his way. Dressed in sky-blue cycling shorts and clinging silk short-sleeved shirt, his arm and leg muscles rippled as he moved. But he was thinking about his phone call to Gale Evers and his frown made him look moody and dangerous.

Gale had been typically non-committal about his chances of getting a part in the soap, but had gone on to wish him luck and then promptly invited him to a high profile film-and television awards ceremony later on that week.

He'd accepted gladly, but now found himself, annoyingly, worrying about how a certain young woman might react to the news, when it became known. But not even for the deliciously sweet-and-sour Ms Whittington was he willing to back off. He needed to raise his profile in any way he could—by foul means or fair!

But as he approached the block of flats, and saw Annis herself mount the steps to the hall, he broke out into a run, with all the fluid ease of a leopard. This time, women positively gaped! ‘Hey, Annis. Wait!'

Annis, in the act of pushing open the doors,
jumped
and looked around. The city was busy. Since most of the actors all had regular day jobs, rehearsals were always held at night, and the rush-hour traffic pounded the streets and pavements with weary commuters, but she had no trouble picking him out of the crowd. She watched him running towards her, the tight cycling shorts clinging to his buttocks, dark curly hair flopping attractively above his forehead, and felt desire start deep and low inside her.

Since her divorce she had been ‘off' men. Right off. The only male her bed had seen in almost a year was Fletcher, her ancient teddy bear. Now, suddenly, her hormones were reminding her of what she was missing. She forced back her unwelcome primordial urges with a monumental effort, and by the time he'd reached her she was wearing what, she hoped, was a neutral smile.

To Reeve it was more like the grin of a she-wolf before she sat down to dinner—the dinner being him, of course—but he was getting used to that by now. ‘I thought I'd missed you,' Reeve said, leaning against the wall, looking down at her with sparkling eyes.