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  A brief spillage of light across the snow-packed drive revealed that someone had peered through the vicarage's sitting-room curtains, and Rachel guessed that her aunt had heard the car. Of course, she wouldn't know what it was doing at the gate, but when her niece appeared it wouldn't take her long to put two and two together. Rachel had been hoping to pretend she had caught the bus, as usual. She was loath to discuss Matthew's kindness with her family. Knowing how her aunt and Barbara could reduce the most innocent of acts to something dirty, she had hoped to keep this experience to herself.

  But now, realising that the longer she stayed in the car, the more suspicious her aunt would become, she reached for the handle of the door.

  'I—thanks for bringing me home,' she murmured ruefully, guessing he had seen the revealing twitch of the curtains, too.

  'You probably saved my life.'

  'But not your reputation, hmm?' he remarked lazily, and now she was sure he had seen the betraying glimmer of light.

  'Oh ' Rachel lifted her shoulders in what she hoped was a dismissing gesture. 'I—I'm sure my aunt and uncle will be very grateful to you.'

  'Are you?' Matthew did not sound convinced, but although sitting here, talking to him, was both pleasurable and exciting, Rachel had the sense to realise it was dangerous, too. He was far too easy to talk to, and, while this might just be an amusing diversion for him, she sensed it could mean more than that to her. And that was just plain stupid!

  'I must go,' she said, gathering the haversack to her chest, as if by creating a physical barrier between them she could protect her innocence. Because she was innocent compared to him, and she had no intention of making a fool of herself.

  'OK.'

  He made no demur when she pulled the handle and opened the door, and the still-falling snow made any prolonged farewells impractical. Instead, he just leaned across the passenger seat and said, 'Good luck!' before slamming the door again and driving away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RACHEL had assumed that that would be the one and only occasion she would get to speak to Matthew Conroy. In the normal course of events their paths simply didn't cross, and even when she'd discovered that his reasons for being at the college that night had been to deliver a guest lecture on computer technology she had had more sense than to imagine it might be repeated. And even if it were, the chances of her running into him again were a million to one.

  No, she was quite prepared to accept her aunt's opinion that she had virtually forced him to offer her a lift home, and that she had probably caused her uncle a great deal of embarrassment. In Aunt Maggie's opinion, she should never have gone to the evening class in the first place; as soon as she'd realised the weather was worsening, she should have come straight home.

  And she was probably right, Rachel decided in the days that followed. But then, Aunt Maggie hadn't wanted her to attend night-school from the very beginning.

  And that was that—until the letter arrived.

  The plain white oblong envelope was waiting for Rachel when she got home from work a week later. It was obvious that both her aunt and her cousin were curious about the letter, but, assuming that it was something to do with the course she was taking, they allowed her to open it in private. And Rachel was glad that they had when she read what was inside. It was an invitation to attend an interview at the Penrith studios of Kirkstone Television. If the interview was successful, she would be offered the chance to train as a receptionist, with the opportunities of advancement if and when she acquired the necessary qualifications.

  With trembling fingers, she turned to the end of the letter, convinced that Matthew Conroy must have had some hand in this, but the signature was disappointingly unfamiliar. Even so, he had to have had something to do with it, she was sure, and her heart palpitated rapidly at the realisation that he hadn't forgotten her.

  Her aunt and cousin were predictably pessimistic. Unaware of Rachel's suspicions that Matthew Conroy must be responsible for the invitation, they assumed that the tutor at the college had arranged the whole thing.

  'He obviously has no idea how difficult it is to get a job—

  any job—in television,' remarked Barbara, tossing the letter on to the sofa. 'He probably knows someone who's arranged for you to have an interview, but that's all. It's getting the job that's the hard part. Not being invited to an interview.'

  Rachel knew she was right—about the interview, at least.

  But that didn't stop her spirits from rising. The idea of working in television, in however small a way, was exciting, and her dreams of becoming a journalist could be realised, if she was ever successful enough to join the station news team.

  It was six weeks before she saw Matthew Conroy again, and by then she was a trainee telephonist, working behind the desk at Kirkstone Television. Her interview had been successful, and for the past three weeks she had been learning a variety of skills necessary to the job. She hadn't found it hard. Talking to people had never been a problem. And by the time Matthew appeared she had gained more confidence, due in no small part to the clothes allowance which was part of her salary.

  Even so, when Matthew walked into the reception area her excitement at seeing him again almost left her speechless. And when later in the day he invited her to have coffee with him, she could hardly get up from her chair and follow him into the boardroom.

  Of course, it had been crazy getting involved with him, she acknowledged now, but at the time she had been blind to the possible consequences of her folly. Where Matthew was concerned, her common sense had seemed to desert her, and although she had known he was engaged to someone else she had convinced herself there was no harm in being friendly. After all, he had been instrumental in getting her this job, she consoled herself, having learned in her first few days at the television station that he was an active member of the governing board.

  But in the weeks that followed it had soon become apparent that Matthew's interest in her went beyond the bounds of a casual relationship. It had become obvious when he invited her to go sailing, and, instead of taking her to some public marina, he brought her to Rothmere. She hadn't needed his mother's steely-eyed air of disapproval to know that what he was doing was both foolish and reckless, and that, although there might only be a few years between them in age, there was a world of difference in background.

  But it was while they were out on the boat that Rachel had begun to realise just what she was taking on. Matthew might have been only eight years older than her seventeen, but he was inconceivably older in experience. And when, inexperienced as she was, she had stumbled and fallen into the bottom of the yacht, there had been nothing remotely immature about the way he picked her up.

  One minute, she was lying in the bottom of the boat, stunned by the sudden transference from perching on the gunwale to being flat on her back, and the next, Matthew had lifted her up into his arms, holding her between his knees as he perched on the cabin roof, his long, hard fingers digging into her bare midriff.

  Somehow, she never quite knew how, the cotton shirt she was wearing under her life jacket had separated from the waistband of her jeans, and Matthew's probing fingers took full advantage of the fact.

  'Are you all right?' he demanded huskily, his breath warm against her throat, and she could only nod vigorously. 'I'd never forgive myself if I hurt you,' he added, gripping her waist with strangely possessive hands. 'I think I should examine you, just to make sure there are no bones broken.'

  'Oh—no. That's not necessary!' She almost choked on the words, but when she met his gaze she discovered he was grinning.

  'We're a little old to play doctors and nurses,' he commented wryly, though he still made no attempt to let her go. 'But if you're game, I have no objections. Who's going to be the patient first?'

  Rachel didn't know how to respond to him, and, as if sensing her bewilderment, his hands slid from her waist, along her bare arms to her wrists. Then, bringing each of her hands to his lips in turn, he kissed each ind
ividual finger, stroking the sensitive pads with his tongue and turning her bones to water.

  He let her go then, as if realising he had gone too far, but it was already too late. It was impossible to hide her feelings for him after that, and, although she sensed that Matthew was not so deeply involved, it was obvious he was attracted to her.

  Of course, Rachel tried to be sensible. She even asked him about his fiancée who, Barbara had spitefully told her, had been away with her parents for the past three months. But Matthew always changed the subject when she mentioned Cecily. And, although she knew deep down inside her that she was a fool for letting him get away with it, the temptation to ignore the truth was easier by far.

  Cecily had come back from Australia at the beginning of June, just as Rachel's aunt and uncle and Barbara were going on holiday. They had always taken a cottage on Exmoor for a couple of weeks every year, and, although Rachel had usually gone with them, this year she wasn't able to. Apart from the fact that it would have been difficult to get time off, when she had only been working at the television station for a few months, her first-year exams at college were looming, and, al- though Uncle Geoff had been loath to leave her, his wife and daughter had no such reservations.

  Barbara made her feelings clear the night before she went away, however. 'Now we'll see how long your job at Kirkstone lasts,' she taunted, coming into Rachel's room as the other girl was getting ready to go to bed. 'Did I tell you Colonel Bishop is a member of the board, too? You can imagine what will happen when he discovers Matthew Conroy has installed his latest girlfriend in reception.'

  Rachel made no comment, although the news that Cecily's father was involved with Kirkstone Television wasn't welcome.

  Nevertheless, since Barbara and her mother had realised that Matthew had had a hand in offering her the interview at the station she had had to suffer many such accusations, and arguing didn't make things easier, it just prolonged the agony.

  Still, the news did persuade her that perhaps she was being a fool in allowing her association with Matthew to continue. As Barbara had cruelly informed her, now that Cecily was home again he wouldn't need her any more, and, no matter how painful the truth might be, she had been only a substitute.

  So, for the first week her family was away, she avoided seeing him, not answering the phone when she suspected it might be him, and getting the other receptionists to make excuses for her absence if she glimpsed his now familiar car driving into the car park at the station. Her friends were sympathetic. She was a likeable girl, and most of her contemporaries, who had envied her the attention Matthew Conroy had shown towards her, were willing to help. Of course, there were exceptions. Girls like Barbara, who had been jealous of her success all along. But she could stand their sniggering; it wasn't likely to last long.

  In the event, it proved easier to avoid him at work than she had thought. Lynn Turner, who worked for Simon Motley, one of the associate producers of the local features programme

  Newsreel, was pregnant, and as she was having a particularly difficult time with morning sickness a temporary stand-in was needed. All the girls who manned the reception desk were offered the chance to try for the job, but as it entailed working longer hours, with no obvious advantages, Rachel was the only one to volunteer. And she got it. In consequence, the next day she moved on to the floor above, sharing an office with Simon and his secretary. And the excitement of being part of actual programme production at last helped in a small way to assuage the loss of Matthew.

  It seemed her affair—if such a word could be used to describe her relationship with Matthew—was over, and the long summer days stretched ahead of her, bleak and lonely. She had had no idea she would miss him so much, and she was glad her aunt and uncle, and Barbara, were away as she struggled to contain her grief—it would have been so humiliating if they had known she cried herself to sleep at nights. In the morning she could disguise her puffy eyes with make-up before anyone at the television station saw her.

  The weekend was the worst. There was no Newsreel on Saturday and Sunday evenings, and, although work did go on on the programme during the weekend, she was not involved.

  Consequently, her spirits were at their lowest ebb on Saturday evening when Matthew came to the door. Rachel had been in the kitchen, preparing herself cheese on toast in lieu of supper, and she hadn't heard the car. Afterwards, she supposed she should have checked who her visitor was before so precipitately opening the door, but she wasn't thinking clearly, and the practicalities of the situation didn't occur to her.

  Therefore it was something of a shock to discover the man who was causing such an upheaval in her life standing with his shoulder propped against the framework of the porch. And she didn't even have the time to regret the unflattering aspects of her appearance before he had straightened and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and forcing her back along the hall.

  She thought at first that he was angry, but anger didn't begin to describe Matthew's feelings at that moment. He was simply furious, and as she backed away along the hall she knew a moment's panic.

  'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' he demanded, cornering her in the kitchen, where the cheese on her toast was beginning to burn, and she thought uneasily how attractive he was, even when he was angry. It was a warm evening, and he wasn't wearing a jacket, and his dark blue shirt was open at the neck. He wasn't an especially hairy man, but there were hairs at the base of his throat, curling over the opened shirt and glisten-ing with the heat.

  'I don't know what you mean,' she answered him now, stretching out a hand to rescue the toast, but he thrust her arm aside. Instead, he turned off the grill, allowing the smoke of the burning cheese to billow into the kitchen, and, grasping her by the wrist, he pulled her after him out of the room.

  By a process of opening one door after the other he eventually found the sitting-room, and, dragging her inside, he practically threw her down on to the couch. 'Now,' he said, standing over her, the taut muscles of his thighs barely inches from her knees as she sat there, 'are you going to tell me why you've been avoiding me? And don't pretend you haven't. I'm not a complete fool.'

  'Nor am I,' retorted Rachel tremulously, chancing a brief glance up at him, then wishing she hadn't when she met his cold, hard gaze.

  'Am I supposed to understand something from that remark?'

  he countered dangerously. 'Rachel, I'm warning you, my patience is running thin. Either you tell me what this is about, or—or——'

  'Or what?' she muttered, hunching her elbows on her knees and cupping her hot face between her palms. 'What can you do to me that you've not already done?'

  'You're not serious?' His response was as much bemused now as violent. 'For heaven's sake! What have I done to you, Rachel? I thought we were— friends!'

  'For how long?' she exclaimed, scuffing at the carpet with her bare toes. 'You know very well that now—now that Cecily's back, you don't need me any more.'

  Matthew swore. 'Who told you that?'

  'I didn't need to be told.' Rachel wouldn't look at him. 'You know it's the truth, so why don't you admit it?'

  'It's not the truth.' With a muffled oath, Matthew came down on the couch beside her, the depression of his weight causing her to tip automatically towards him. But when he would have put his arm about her shoulders she stiffened and pulled away from him.

  'You're crazy,' he said frustratedly, and when she would have turned away he put out his hand and grasped her chin, tilting her face towards him. 'Crazy,' he repeated harshly, rubbing his thumb across the vulnerable curve of her mouth. 'I'm not interested in Cecily. I've told you that before.'

  'But you're going to marry her anyway.'

  'No, I'm not. Why don't you believe me?' He sighed. 'Have I ever lied to you?'

  Rachel quivered. 'I don't know, do I?'

  'Yes, you do.' Aware that she was weakening, albeit against her will, his hand slid under her chin to cup the gentle hollow of her throat. 'Just because I ha
ven't slept with you yet, it doesn't mean I haven't wanted to.'

  Rachel caught her breath. 'I—I wouldn't let you anyway.'

  'Wouldn't you?' His eyes dropped sensuously to her lips, and the quickened rise and fall of her small breasts. 'My darling, if that was all I had wanted you wouldn't have been able to stop me.'

  'Because you're so irresistible? Is that it?' she retorted, trembling uncontrollably, and he shook his head.

  'Just sure of you,' he amended huskily, and, as if unable to control himself, he leant forward and touched her startled lips with his tongue. 'Stop trying to create a situation of contention when there is none,' he whispered, his breath moistening the hollows of her ear. 'And don't pretend you don't want to see me again, or I might not be responsible for my actions.'

  Rachel jerked back. 'But what about Cecily?' she persisted, getting abruptly to her feet. 'You won't ever talk about her.

  Whenever I mention her name, you change the subject.'

  Matthew groaned. 'You don't listen, do you?' he declared, and when she turned her back on him he got to his feet, too, and came to stand right behind her. 'What do you want me to say?'

  he demanded, in a low voice, and she lifted her shoulders as if to ward off an attack. 'For heaven's sake, Rachel, don't make this any harder than it already is! Why can't we just go on as before?

  What has happened to make you change your mind?'

  'Cecily's come back, hasn't she?' she mumbled, her bent head exposing the vulnerable curve of her nape. 'Everyone knows. It's common knowledge in the village. They're all saying you'll be getting married now, and speculating when it's going to be.'

  'Oh, God! ' His plea was heartfelt, and she flinched when his hands descended on her shoulders. 'Cecily's been back in England since the beginning of May. Just because she's not been here, in Rothside, it doesn't mean I haven't been in touch with her.'