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While it was difficult to envisage him being in danger, it was not the least bit difficult envisaging him as being dangerous. ‘You’re romanticising,’ she cautioned herself in a hushed murmur as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other and cursed the uncomfortable shoes she had been forced to wear in keeping with her period costume.

And it wasn’t only her feet. Her legs were beginning to cramp from the almost immobile stance she had maintained for the past hour—not to mention the nuisance caused by the occasional mosquito. Luckily the harbour breezes kept that population down to a minimum, or the next day she would have looked as if she had the measles. With her shawl wrapped securely around her arms and shoulders for protection, she leaned back on to the porch railing to give her legs a rest. Although the structure creaked ever so lightly, it seemed firm enough, and she was grateful for the relief. There was a bench nearby, but the light from the windows fell on it and she did not want to risk moving from her shadowed position.

Detective work, she decided, attempting to wiggle her toes in the confining shoes, was not only boring but decidedly uncomfortable. Well, not exactly boring, she amended, finding it difficult to associate that word with Brad Garwood.

Feeling smugly safe from observation, she was not worried when she lost track of her prey until a sudden warning sense caused her to glance towards the french doors leading on to the piazza. The man had passed through them and was moving purposefully towards her. The railing creaked again as she shifted position slightly, feigning an intense interest in the darkened harbour.

‘The view is much better from inside,’ his deep, gravelly tones sliced the air between them.

Breathing deeply to steady her nerves, Sara turned slowly to face him and smiling politely, said, ‘I don’t think so. Even with only the moonlight I can see Fort Sumter from here.’

‘I’m not a man who enjoys playing games,’ he scowled. Holding his voice low added an intimidating edge to his speech, and Sara’s back stiffened defiantly. 'I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ she returned, rising from the railing and smoothing out the material of her skirt as if she found this entire conversation boring and intended to leave.

His eyes narrowed. She had been sequestered in a corner and instead of moving aside to let her pass, he took a step forward, causing his legs to meet the hem of her voluminous skirt. Then to secure his advantage he placed a hand on the pillar to her left. With no room to pass him on the side by the window, she was trapped. 'You’ve been watching me all evening, and I find it a decidedly uncomfortable sensation,’ he said coolly.

Steve had told her to lie, but she guessed a denial would do no good. Her instincts told her that Brad Garwood was not the kind of man who could be played for a fool. Unconsciously, she licked her lips nervously, then forcing a smile, said in her best coquettish manner, ‘I apologise if I’ve caused you any discomfort. I do confess to having been observing you. I’m an artist and I find your face a very interesting study.’

Although his voice took on a gentler tone, a strong note of scepticism told her that he had not totally bought the half-truth. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Brad Garwood.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Garwood,’ she smiled, hoping that in the dark he would not read the panic in her eyes.

For a long moment, he stood patiently waiting, but as the silence continued he frowned darkly. 'It’s your turn.'

'I’m Cindy, a distant cousin of the Fallons,’ she stammered, her entire body rebelling against lying to this man, causing her to feel confused and frustrated.

‘Cindy,’ he repeated the name as if testing its authenticity. ‘Somehow you don’t strike me as a “Cindy”. However, it would be ungallant of me to call so lovely a lady a liar. Instead, I’ll ask you to dance.’

‘I’m not really in the mood,’ she managed, her words coming with surprising calm.

‘I insist.’ There was no compromise in his tone. Reaching out, he captured her hand.

The contact seemed almost to burn. Startled by her reaction to the man’s touch and fearful of exposure, Sara attempted to pull away. As she took a step backward, her full weight pressed against the wooden railing. Suddenly a sharp splintering sound filled the air as a portion of the structure gave way. Losing her balance, she would have fallen to the ground below except for the firm hold Brad Garwood had on her hand. As a shriek of terror escaped her lips, she felt herself being jerked hard against the stone wall of his chest. Standing in the secure circle of his embrace, her arms wrapped tightly around his solid form, she had the sensation of being completely safe and protected. Then as the voices of others gathering around them reached her brain, she flushed with embarrassment and, pushing away from him, managed to choke out a thank-you.

‘Are you all right?’ he questioned, his voice showing true concern.

‘Yes,’ she murmured, meeting the velvet green of his eyes and suddenly feeling shaky all over again, but this time for a much different reason.

‘Grandma must have had a great deal more gypsy blood in her than we ever knew,’ Marc Fallon noted cryptically, materialising beside her. ‘She always hated outsiders.’

Before Sara or Brad could react to this statement, Monica came through the doorway demanding to know what had happened.

'Cindy had a bit of a scare,’ Marc explained nonchalantly as the small crowd parted to allow their hostess access to the heart of the scene. ‘And now I intend to take her inside and find her a brandy. Fm a great believer in alcohol for medicinal purposes, among others.'

‘Cindy?' Monica's voice was a sharp question hanging on the air as Marc took Sara's hand and literally dragged her after him into the house and then down the stairs.

‘I think perhaps it's time for Cinderella to flee the ball,’ he suggested with a conspiratorial smile.

‘I think so too,' she agreed. ‘And thanks for the little added help FG.’ With a quick wink, she hurried out the front door and down the sidewalk.

A man walking a dog on the Sea Wall quickened his pace, crossing the street ahead of where she was and then slowing to an easy gait. 'I saw what happened,’ he said in hushed tones as she came abreast. ‘You all right?'

‘I’m fine, Sam,’ she assured him in the same muted tones.

‘These homes have been around for a long time. You’d have thought they would have checked those railings before throwing a big party like this one,’ he commented with a disapproving shake of his head as he slowed his pace once again to allow her to move ahead of him before he changed direction and started back the way he had come.

The dog barked and Sara heard Sam’s hushed tones quieting him, but did not turn around to see what had caught the dog’s interest. She still felt shaky and her whole attention was focused on getting home, the quicker the better.

Twenty minutes later, as she climbed the rickety outside staircase to her second-floor apartment, the remembered sensation of falling as the railing gave way behind her caused an uncontrolled shiver. This was followed by a deep fiery glow as the memory of being held firmly against Brad Garwood’s long form filled her senses.

Dismissing this disturbingly acute reaction to the man as the result of shock and heightened emotion brought on by her near fatal accident, she let herself into her apartment and put on some hot water for a cup of tea. It had been a long evening.

Sitting down on the couch, she unfastened the shoes which had been the bane of her existence during the entire evening and slipping them off, luxuriated in the feel of freedom from the pain of pinched toes. Then, standing up, she began to work on unbuttoning the dress. A loud knocking interrupted the process. Fastening the chain securely, she opened the door a crack to find Brad Garwood standing on the small landing, a scowl on his face. ‘Open the door,’ he demanded.

‘No!’ her refusal came out sharply as she held the door with one hand and the dress in place with the other.

‘I’m not leaving until I get some answers. I’ll stand here and pound on your door all night, if that’s what it takes.’ The anger darkening his features told her that he meant to carry out this threat.

A resigned sigh escaped from Sara. She couldn’t afford to let him make a racket. Her apartment was the second floor of a private residence with her landlady occupying the bottom floor. Although she still had six months remaining on her lease, the sudden impending return of Mrs Wynn’s son and his wife had given the woman a strong desire to evict Sara and regain the full use of her home. Over the past few weeks, she had professed to having developed an allergy to Sara’s oil paints and complained that the fumes were keeping her awake at night. She accused Sara of throwing wild parties whenever a friend came over for coffee and swore she was going to have the phone disconnected if it rang after nine in the evening. Sara knew she was fighting a losing battle but was determined to hold on until the last moment. This was not only the cheapest place she could find in a decent neighbourhood, but it had come fully furnished; not that the furnishings were anything to brag about, but they were free and liveable with. ‘I have to close the door a minute to unfasten the chain,’ she said, following her words with actions.

‘I warn you, I’m dangerous when provoked,’ he growled, slamming the door closed behind him as she backed away. Coming to an abrupt halt, he studied her contemptuously. ‘You look like Scarlett O’Hara fearing that she’s going to be ravished by the enemy. Either go and change or refasten that dress, but stop standing there halfway in and halfway out.’

Brown fury flashed in Sara’s eyes. ‘I didn’t invite you to come barging into my home so you’ll have to excuse me for not being dressed for company.’

‘I’ll excuse you for nothing until I get some answers,’ he returned drily, his eyes never leaving her as she struggled to hold the dress in place and maintain her dignity.

The whistle on the teapot sounded, forcing her to go into the kitchen and switch off the stove. He was blocking the doorway when she turned to go out. ‘I thought you said you wanted me to change,’ she glared, anger masking the panic building inside. He was a big man.

‘Maybe I’ve changed my mind.’ His eyes travelled down to the cleavage between her breasts, bringing a dark flush to her skin.

'Mr Garwood, either you get out of my way or I start screaming,’ she threatened. ‘My landlady is a light sleeper and calls the police at the least little sound of a disturbance.’

Slowly a cynical smile curled his lips. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, giving her room to pass, ‘but I do have a reputation to protect.’

Her chin shot up. How dared he insult her! ‘You can wait in there.’ She indicated the living room with a shrug of her shoulder as she walked with her back straight and her head held high down to her bedroom.

Once there, she changed out of the dress and into a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. Dressed in her normal attire, she began to feel more in control. Determined to insist that the man leave, she marched down to the living room, only to find that he was not there. He was not in the kitchen either. Her first reaction was one of relief, assuming that he had become bored with his cat-and-mouse game and gone home. Then her intuition took over and she knew that assumption was only wishful thinking. Retracing her steps down the hall, she went into the room she used for a studio and found him standing in front of her easel with the cloth raised examining the almost finished seascape beneath.

‘It would appear that being an artist is the only thing you didn’t lie to me about... Sara Manderly.’ He turned to face her, his expression black. ‘Unless you lied even about that and the woman who signed the finished works in this room is your room-mate.’

Without her billowing dress and high-heeled shoes, her slight five-foot-five-inch frame seemed even smaller beside his large bulk, but her brother was a big man too and she refused to allow size to intimidate her. ‘I live alone,’ she snapped back, his sarcasm momentarily clouding her common sense. As soon as the words were out she wished she had professed to having a room-mate asleep in the bedroom. Angry with herself for letting the man unnerve her, she decided to take the offensive. ‘How did you find me?’

‘When you left the house in such a rush I was close behind,’ he replied, releasing the covering and allowing it to fall back into place. ‘At first I only wanted to be certain you were capable of getting home safely. You’d been pretty shaken up. Then I spotted
you
talking to Sam and decided to follow you and get to the truth.’

‘You couldn’t have followed me on foot and I would have noticed a horse and carriage,’ she muttered suspiciously.

‘Being an uncouth Yankee, I’d driven my car and parked it down the block, then walked to the party. I was behind the wheel before you ever turned into your side street to collect your vehicle.’

‘I see.’ She met his angry stare with equal hostility. ‘And now about you, Miss Manderly. I have a Chief of Security by that name. Is it possible that the two of you are related?’

‘Steve’s my brother.’ She saw no sense in lying at this point.

‘And unless Sam’s moved recently, he travelled quite a distance out of his way to walk his dog.’

Neither confirming nor denying this statement, she turned away from the man and went back to the kitchen where she continued to make her tea. Assuming he had all the answers he needed to figure out the rest, she was surprised when he did not leave the apartment but came to stand in the doorway and watch her. ‘Won’t Monica be missing you?’ she frowned.

‘Monica has a house full of guests. If she asks, I’ll simply explain that you were a bit shaken up and I saw you home.'

‘And what if she asks you where home was?'

‘You’re good at games,’ he mused cynically. ‘I suppose it would be more prudent to tell her that I saw you to your car and then went for a walk on the Sea Wall and stopped for a smoke.’

‘It’s turning into a very long walk and a whole pack of cigarettes,’ she commented pointedly.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea?’ he questioned drily, refusing to take the hint.