"I thought your mum had a gas fire."

"She does now, but she kept the bunker to store her gardening tools and one of them-a great big Australian bloke-jumped out on her and took a picture. Mum said she nearly had a heart attack." Lucy collapsed into a chair.

"Was he naked or something?"

"No. He had some kind of funny hat thing, though, according to Mum."

"With corks on it?" Fiona erupted into a huge guffaw.

"Fiona, it's not funny. He jumped out when Mum went to peg some washing out and asked her if commitment issues ran in the family."

"That's below the belt. Especially with your dad's track record and all that. They haven't managed to track him down, have they?"

"No. Not yet, but he's been mentioned. Some columnist was asking if that's why he walked out. They didn't bother to say that he'd had God knows how many affairs, just that he'd left us and we'd refused ever to speak to him again."

"How the hell did they find that out?"

"It said they'd spoken to a close family friend."

"Some bloody friend!" declared Fiona.

"Mum thinks it might have been that Brenda Thingy from the horticultural society. She never did like the fact that Mum's sweet peas beat hers in the last Grimeton Show."

"This Brenda sounds like a deeply vengeful woman."

"I know, I know, Fi. It's ridiculous. I'm paranoid after all this, but what can you do?"

"Has Nick spoken to the press yet?" said Fiona gently.

"No. He's refused to comment, which I'm grateful for," she added.

"Have you spoken to him yet?"

Lucy sighed. "I've tried a couple of times but only got the voice mail. I spoke to his sister, Hattie, and she said he never wanted to talk to me again."

The phone rang again. The screen showed a London number and Lucy pressed it to her ear cautiously. "Hello?"

"Is that Lucy Gibson?"

"Yes..."

"You're live on Sleaze FM, the station that leaves nothing to the imagination! Tell us, Lucy, what was Nick Laurentis like in bed? Is it true you made him get down on all fours and howl like a wolf?"

Lucy stabbed the red button, breathless with shock. "Sleaze FM. No idea how they got my cell phone number." She caught sight of the time on the radio. "Oh flip. I've got to get into work. Can you let yourself out?"

"Sure," said Fiona, "Call me anytime if you need me, but not for the next hour. I'm doing some research on lethal substances with a very well-built toxicologist. I could almost break my IQ rule for him. Almost."

As Lucy was hunting for a clean blouse, the phone rang again. She didn't recognize the number.

"Is that Lucinda Gibson?" asked the caller.

"It's Lucy. Can't you even get my name right?"

There was a pause. "Ah. Yes. Lucy, it's Hugo Lawson Sr. From Able & Lawson. Your um... boss."

Lucy sank down on the bed, one shoe on and one off, her mind processing the voice on the end of the line. Hugo Lawson Sr., who was seventy-squillion (as opposed to Hugo Lawson Jr. who was a veritable babe magnet at sixty-two). "I am sooo sorry, Mr. Lawson. I didn't mean to be rude, only I thought you were one of them," she gushed.

"Them?"

"A tabloid hack."

"Oh. Well, I never read the tabloids," said Mr. Lawson. "Only the FT. However, this morning my attention has been drawn to a number of publications of a more scurrilous nature. Miss Pettigrew happened to catch sight of your um... image in one such newspaper while on her way to work on the Tube. She deemed it necessary to purchase several copies with the petty cash."

Lucy could imagine Miss Pettigrew, the management team PA, bearing a neatly folded pile of "scurrilous publications" into Mr. Lawson's oak-lined office.

"I believe several young men were making observations about your photograph on the Piccadilly line this morning. I have to say, Lucy, that it would have been preferable if the name of the firm had not found its way into the article." She heard rustling on the end of the line. "Ah, here's the paragraph in question: 'Love-rat Lucy Gibson must be used to taking down briefs in her job with a firm of City lawyers. But her bosses at Able & Lawson probably didn't have anything quite as scanty as THIS PAIR in mind.'"

Lucy wanted the floor to open up.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Lawson."

"It's wholly inaccurate, of course. I've never asked you to take down any briefs. You're only the marketing assistant, but you get my drift..."

"I apologize. I mean, it won't happen again. These tabloid reporters are scumbags!"

"Quite-and that is why I'm calling."

Lucy's stomach began to churn a little. This sounded ominous.

"I've been chatting to your line manager, Letitia, and she tells me that it has been difficult for you to perform your duties as we-and, doubtless, you-would wish to. Therefore, we thought it might be appropriate if..."

...you sacked me? thought Lucy, feeling sick.

"Are you still there?" asked Mr. Lawson.

"Yes. I'm still here."

"We have discussed the matter and thought it prudent for you to take your annual leave now. I believe you have two weeks owing and perhaps, if you concur with us, as I'm sure you will, considering all the circumstances..."

Lucy now knew why Letitia's blood pressure had risen when she'd had a meeting with Mr. Lawson Sr.

"We were hoping that you might consider adding a spell of extra leave on to your vacation to give time for this... this extraordinary situation to resolve itself. A month would appear to be an appropriate timescale."

"A whole month? But that means I won't be back until the summer! Are you sure?"

"It seems like a prudent course of action, Lucinda, yes. I'm afraid we can't have this kind of attention drawn to a firm with a reputation such as ours."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Lawson. Probably best for everyone, in the um... extraordinary circumstances. Thank you for being so understanding."

"Capital. We'll hopefully see you in a month, when, I trust, any unpleasantness will be behind you. I mean, when this is all over. Good-bye."

Fiona appeared in the doorway. "Well?"

"That was my boss. He wants me to take some leave and put any unpleasantness behind me. Fi, I don't think this incident has helped my prospects of making assistant marketing manager rather than marketing assistant."

"Is there a difference?"

"About three grand a year and someone else gets to fetch your sandwiches," said Lucy lightly, but inside she had a distinct feeling of unease. Bringing the firm into disrepute was hardly a great career move, even though it wasn't, technically, her fault. Hugo Lawson might sound bumbling but she guessed he could be as ruthless as Sir Denby himself if he sensed an opportunity to save money. Right now, however, she had to make the best of a bad situation.

"I think I need to get away somewhere where people are not," she said as Fiona piled crockery in the sink.

Fiona turned, plate in hand. "You mean-"

"Would you mind? Just for a few weeks. I'll contribute to expenses," said Lucy, pulling off her office heels.

Fiona shook her head. "Don't be silly. I could do with getting out of London and doing some actual writing, and it would be fun to have company. I've only managed fifteen thousand words of Murder at the Mall and I've a deadline looming. Besides, I fancy a taste of sea air and buff surfer boys."

"Oh God! No men! Will you believe me if I say I never want to get within ten feet of another man as long as I live?"

"Maybe today but not forever. It might not be all over with Nick yet, Lucy."

Lucy was touched. Fiona had never had a good word for Nick before, but now she was trying hard to be helpful.

"For a writer of fiction, you're a hopeless liar, Fi."

"But an enthusiastic one. Look, let me go home and make a few calls while you pack. I'll pick you up later."

Lucy nodded and went through into the bedroom. Standing in front of her dressing table, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was shocked by the woman who frowned back, pale and forlorn and mousy-haired. She studied herself for a few more moments, then grabbed her purse and headed back to the kitchen where Fiona was clipping Hengist's lead into his collar, ready to leave.

"Fiona. Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, hon."

"Pop into Superdrug for me. There's something I need to do."

Chapter 10.

"So run it by me again, Josh. Just who is this woman demanding we drop everything and get the cottage ready for her?" asked Sara Pentire, shaking up the duvet so hard that she knocked a china vase from the bedside table.

Josh Standring was too late to save it from rolling onto the patchwork rug by the bed. He was reluctant to touch anything in the bedroom, afraid of getting muddy fingerprints on the pristine white sheets that Sara had expertly tucked under the mattress. Yet he thought the vase deserved rescuing, so he picked it up carefully.

"Her name's Fiona Bentley-Black," he said, holding out the little vase.

Sara wrinkled her nose at it before dumping it back on the table. "The crime writer?"

"Is she? She needs the cottage in a hurry, that's all I know. If Mrs. Sennen hadn't had a fall, she'd have taken care of everything as usual." He raked a hand through his hair in embarrassment. "Sara, I'd have done it myself but I have to get the paddock fence finished. I don't like to see you doing my dirty work."

Sara shrugged. "Some notice would've been nice rather than phoning up at ten o'clock and asking us to get the place ready for her." Josh smiled. Sara hated people being disorganized and it was always a surprise to him that she was interested in him. Live and let live, that was his philosophy in life these days. In fact, even having a philosophy at all sounded way too close to an actual plan.

"And she's got a friend with her?" said Sara, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the cover. "Mrs. Sennen said she phoned again and asked her to make up the spare room."

"Right," said Josh, already itching to be outside again. He'd almost finished repairing the fence around the paddock where one of the cottage owners kept a few rare-breed sheep. He'd only popped into the house to see Sara and thank her for stepping in at the last moment.

"Thanks, Sara. I know this isn't your scene."

Giving the pillow a final thud, she slotted it into place on the bed. "Josh, it's not a problem. Just chill out, I've cleaned up the best I can but this place hasn't been used in months, by the look of it."

The house looked immaculate to Josh, but then he was hardly a domestic goddess.

"And I've made the beds, the double and the single, so this Fiona can bring any combo of friends she likes. Is she gay?"

Josh smiled softly. Not from what he'd gathered from his few meetings with Fiona. She'd almost pinned him against the countertop in her kitchen before he'd convinced her she wasn't his type.

"No idea," he said, adding, "Tresco Creek attracts all kinds of people, you should know that."

Sara stopped midway to adjusting a heart-shaped tapestry cushion so that it was exactly in the center of the pillow. "Some more tasty than others," she said, her gaze traveling to Josh's chest.

He glanced down and gave a rueful smile. He should have known, in hindsight, that it was a mistake to wander into the bedroom of the cottage, stripped to the waist. Even as Sara flicked a tongue over her lips, he guessed that the fence was going to have to wait a while.

"Sweetheart, I'm filthy," he warned as she took a step toward him.

"So is what I have in mind."

She entwined her arms around his neck and touched the tip of her tongue to his bare chest, grimacing slightly at the bitterness.

"I warned you."

"I don't care."

"This is Fiona's cottage," murmured Josh. His fingers slipped inside the back of her white shorts, finding her skin deliciously warm. He was no longer worried about leaving dirty marks. He lowered his mouth to her ear. "I don't suppose she'd be too pleased to know the hired help was having sex in her bedroom."

"What Fiona Thingy doesn't know won't hurt her, and you won't get anything dirty," said Sara, releasing him, only to whip back the rug off the floor. The next thing Josh felt were wooden boards beneath his naked backside and Sara sliding on top of him.

An hour later he was back in the paddock, swinging a sledgehammer, almost wishing he hadn't succumbed so easily. Almost, but not quite. If there was one thing he was sure of in this uncertain world, it was that he loved sex. He loved women, and until he'd met Sara a couple of years before, he'd wasted no time in indulging himself.

Josh had been one of those lucky blokes who bulked up young. At eighteen, he'd had the body of a man of twenty-five and he'd known it. Despite what the social workers and, occasionally Marnie, had told him, his "reputation" hadn't put off the girls. In fact, it had acted like a magnet. Local girls and vacationers alike had flocked round him but nowhere had his pull been stronger than with the girls who arrived in Porthstow, regular as clockwork, at the end of every June.

Girls from places like Surrey and Cheshire. From universities like Durham, Oxford, and Cambridge. Places that would have probably ejected him from their manicured cloisters and halls if they'd caught him climbing up their ivy. Girls who were blond, raven-haired, brunette, and auburn. All with lithe bodies, shiny hair, and glossy accents.