She shook her head. Being with him was doing bizarre things to her appetite, ravenous one moment, no appetite for days thereafter.

They walked back arm in arm, weaving through the trees in front of Clery & Co. like bending poles and kissing beneath each one.

In front of the statue of Joyce, Legs gave the great man a salute and silently apologised for the fact that she would never understand or appreciate him as much detective fiction, adding that she dearly hoped that Francis one day found a woman who could.

Byrne waited patiently, not entirely sold on the tribute, but respectful enough to let her worship as he leaned against Joyce's walking stick.

'What did you make of Ulysses?' she asked Byrne as they walked the last short stretch to the hotel.

'Is this a test?' he asked.

She shrugged. 'Quicker than putting up a tent.'

'Takes a lot longer to read Ulysses than to put up a tent.' He took her arm in his.

'I'm still unravelling the narrative groundsheet. Do you think I'm incredibly thick?'

'Heavenly Pony, I haven't even started sorting out the tent pegs. Who am I to judge?'

To their delight, they soon discovered a whole new bedroom to their suite in which to make love, along with a balcony overlooking the still whooping, revelling streets and the city skyline, and then it was back to the deep bath to lather each other with every miniature soap product on offer.

The following morning, Legs slept very late and then luxuriated with breakfast in bed. She ordered enough for two, but Byrne, who had gone for a run, was missing for hours. In the end she shared his ration with Fink then got indigestion.

'Did you get lost?' she asked when he finally reappeared, heading straight into the shower.

'I had to make some calls and send a few emails.'

She dangled off the bed so that she could see his reflection in the long mirror opposite the bathroom door, 'Shouldn't have thrown away your phone.'

He turned on the water, stopping the conversation. Legs admired him for a bit, belly squirming with lust, but her indigestion was giving her a stitch, so she got up to dress.

It seemed like an eternity since she'd had any of her own clothes for more than a few hours. She flipped through the selection Zina had kindly lent to her, a cornucopia of pastels. So far she'd worn the same baggy pink linen trousers each day, but they were now looking decidedly grubby, and the only alternatives a little pale yellow dress or tight white pedalpushers had been bought by somebody with great legs they liked to show off. She plumped for the dress as the lesser of two evils, knowing that to encase her thighs in white would be about as flattering as sporting voluminous bloomers stuffed with bubblewrap.

Pulling it over her head, she went to the mirror to check how much cellulite was on show, then did a double take. Somebody with very shapely legs was staring back at her from the mirror.

They couldn't be her legs, she thought excitedly. Smoothly curved, hand-turned to perfect symmetry and creamy taut. No, they couldn't be.

Behind her, Byrne stepped out of the shower and let out a long, appreciative wolf whistle.

Legs turned an amazed circle, wondering how that had happened. She supposed that she hadn't really looked at herself for longer than a few seconds in a full length mirror since before falling ill. She'd had plenty of opportunities to scrutinise her face, quite liking her cheekbones yet missing her rosy cheeked glow. And she could tell her stomach was a bit flatter and her waist a bit smaller although right now she had a decidedly rounded belly from eating two breakfasts. But her thighs, which had always resisted every diet, exercise programme, expensive cream and undignified wrap in the world, were a revelation.

She struck a model pose, laughing in utter delight. She didn't care if she only had slim legs for a few short weeks; she was far too greedy to keep them, after all. The fact that she had them at all, however fleetingly, was wondrous. She wanted to dance along O'Connell Street in her bare feet and her short dress like a sixties flower child performing the odd high kick. To know what it felt like to wear a miniskirt was heaven.

To know what it felt like to stand in front of a mirror with a naked lover starting to kiss her shoulders, lift up that miniskirt and part her slim legs was even more heavenly.

Byrne's gaze met hers in the mirror and she shivered deliciously, her body absolutely rippling with desire. 'You are the loveliest creature alive. My gorgeous Allegra.'

'Your gorgeous Legs,' she corrected, deciding it was time he used the name she knew best. Then, as he slid a hand beneath her buttock to lift one thigh, she smiled deliciously. 'You're stretching your Legs.'

Over her shoulder his smile creased his eyes as he slid inside her. 'Pulling my Legs.'

Afterwards, ravenous, he ate all the food out of the minibar and the complimentary biscuits from the coffee tray.

'We could order room service,' she laughed, watching him indulgently from the bed, knowing that she would never tire of admiring his buttocks. 'Or go out and get something round here? Look at the shops?' she hinted. She didn't want to get all Pretty Woman on him, and would be happy to buy herself some new clothes, but her purse was still in her impounded car.

The trouble was, Byrne liked her most naked at the moment, so had no real interest in acquiring items to cover her up. The thought wouldn't even occur to him.

He clambered on the bed beside her, shaking his head. 'We're checking out in a minute.'

'Where are we going?'

'Sea Legs.' He dropped a kiss on her bare stomach.

By lunchtime, they were on a ferry headed for Holyhead. On deck, beneath an angry grey sky, they leaned on the rails and looked out at the rumpled, creased sea.

'What's the plan?' Legs asked.

Byrne's fingers threaded between hers. 'I'm taking your advice.'

She smiled with delight, gratified that he trusted her. 'So where are we going?'

'The West Country.'

She felt immediately queasy, her two breakfasts repeating on her. 'If one's on the run, isn't it rather counter-intuitive to run directly to the place where one's wanted most?'

He looked out to sea for a long time, wind blowing the hair back off his face, revealing its intricate contours and angles, and deep furrows in his brow. 'You were quite right when you said we can't keep running.'

'I didn't mean "let's go to Devon".'

'We're not going there right now.'

'Well that's a relief,' she said. 'At least I have a few hours before getting arrested for taking possession of a picture of ...' She glanced around, aware of the number of people close by.

'Yes, what was the picture you stole of?'

'A front bottom,' she whispered prudishly. 'And I didn't steal it. I mistakenly drove away with it in my car, which incidentally is the unluckiest car I've ever had. I've had a speeding penalty, three parking tickets, been clamped and almost driven into a quarry since getting it, and now it's been impounded. I loved my old red Honda.'

He put his arms around her, laughing, 'I'll buy you it back as a wedding present.'

'I'll pin up its photo in my prison cell,' she grumbled.

Still laughing, he kissed her, hands on her face, his lips so familiar against hers now that she struggled to know or care where one pair started and another ended.

'Aw, isn't that romantic. Just like Titanic!' a voice exclaimed in broad Irish brogue.

'We haven't hit an iceberg yet,' Byrne whispered when they came up for air.

'It's only a matter of time,' Legs muttered, watching over his shoulder as the lighthouse at the end of the Holyhead harbour wall grew ever-closer, like the last pawn on a chessboard as the endgame approached checkmate.

When Byrne stopped to refuel at a service station on the M5 the not-quite-red Bentley Continental now attracting huge amounts of attention everywhere they went Legs took a loo break and saw the front cover of the Express, stopping dead with total horror. Her face was on it.

FARCOMBE INTRIGUE LINKED TO SPURNED LOVER; DEATH THREATS AND ART THEFT. COULD PTOLEMY FINCH SAVE THE DAY?.

Buying a copy along with a pair of cheap dark glasses and a baseball cap, she slunk back to the car.

Byrne was unimpressed. 'The festival team are going after maximum publicity for Gordon. They're working with Conrad and Piers Fox now, remember. Nothing will be sacred.'

The article left readers in no doubt that Ptolemy's creator would be unveiled in two days' time. Speculation about his identity had gone mad; the prime suspects were under siege. Stephen Fry was being door-stepped, and Salman Rushdie was threatening to go into hiding again. Investigative journalists and paparazzi were beside themselves trying to get to the truth first.

'Gordon can't leave it any longer to reveal his face,' Byrne said darkly. 'Any day now, they'll find him for themselves and make up their own truths.'

'Catching him on the run with an international art crook won't do a lot for his reputation as a children's author,' Legs joked flatly. 'It's OK. Drop me at the nearest moor. I'll take the tent and take my chances.'

'Let's try to enjoy tonight.' He indicated to join the Bridgewater slip road. She noticed his knuckles were white against the black leather of the steering wheel.

'Where are we staying?'

'Watchet.'

'I was only asking.'

To her surprise he laughed, the tension seeming to drop away from him. 'We're going to Watchet marina. A friend has a yacht there at our disposal.'

'Generous friend.'

'I met him travelling. He's lives in Costa Rica now, so the boat's never used. He hasn't got around to sailing it over there yet.'

Legs had sudden visions of her and Byrne hoisting mainsails and tacking between North Somerset and the Pacific Rim.

'So when you say that we must stop running,' she asked carefully, 'does that mean you want to start floating instead?'

He took a long time to answer, pulling a pair of dark glasses from the glove-box and putting them on as a low sun burst through the clouds at last. Now Legs couldn't even read his expression as he again said: 'Let's enjoy tonight.'

With the car's roof down, Fink propped his paws up on the rear door trim so that he could catch the slipstream and sniff the air, ears turned inside out. It was a very balmy afternoon to breathe, thick with the scent of harvest and autumn approaching, a bonfire tang in the air and hedgerows crammed with ripening blackberries and sloes.

Letting herself daydream idly, Legs found the idea of life aboard a sailing boat increasingly erotic, imagining herself in a bikini, deeply tanned with sun-bleached hair standing at the prow of a glossy white cruiser with Byrne, mahogany-skinned and superhero-chested at her side, surrounded by turquoise sea.

By the time they reached the marina, her fantasy had got thoroughly out of hand. As the Continental's soft-top closed back over them, she was out of her seat and kissing Byrne before he'd even pulled up the handbrake, which wasn't wise so close to the quayside, but she didn't much care right now, just as it didn't bother her that the Bentley attracted immediate attention as usual, and two faces were soon peering in at them while conducting a loud discussion as to whether it was Simon Cowell in there being molested by a blonde nympho.

'Simon likes dusky beauties,' one of the onlookers pointed out. 'I think that's a footballer. Doesn't John Terry have a GT?'

'Jesus!' Byrne laughed, pulling away from her lips. 'I'm definitely selling the car. Fink might approve of dogging, but it's not my thing.'

'Boats are much more private,' Legs couldn't wait to get aboard. 'There's only sea-life to watch us once we're in open water.'

'And Fink.'

'He'll be far too busy dog-fishing,' Legs pointed out, throwing open her door. 'Let's go straight below deck and get naked.'

'You can make a start on that while I tell the harbour master we're here.' Smiling up politely at their audience, he got out too before turning back to Legs. 'I expect you ship-shape and Bristol fashion by my return.'

'I'll be waiting, bristols flashing.' She blew him a kiss over the top of the car.

'She's the big cruising yacht called Chastity. She should be unlocked by now,' Byrne told her then loped off to the marina office, Fink at his heels.

Still admiring the Bentley, the two onlookers crossed their arms in front of their chests, one of them breathing: 'Did he just say Chastity? You know what they say about her.'

'Owned by drug smugglers,' the other confirmed in a nervous whisper.

'I've already seen someone go on board today. They must be planning a run.'

Chastity was not exactly the glossy-white Cannes harbour dream Legs had envisaged while making her steamy seduction plans in the car, but she had a vintage sex appeal nonetheless. She was the forty foot grande dame of the marina, bobbing at the far end of a pontoon, with peeling powder blue paint and faded woodwork. Legs raced on board.

Clanking below deck, she started to undress hurriedly, ripping off borrowed clothes, eager for the fantasy to keep distracting her from reality. She knew Byrne felt exactly the same way. Sex was the easiest, happiest place to escape to right now, along with crazy daydreams of setting sail. Down to her underwear, she shook out her hair and ran her hands up the back of her hot neck to scoop it up from her shoulders and roll the tension from her spine.

'Hello Allegra,' a figure walked through from the main berth. 'You've put on weight.' It was Poppy.

'What are you doing here?' Legs yelped in alarm, hands still on her head as though being held at gunpoint.

'I could ask you the same thing.' She squinted short-sightedly at her. 'Is that a tattoo on your neck? Who on earth is "Graham"?'

Chapter 52.

'I got a taxi here,' Poppy was shaking with nerves. 'I had to wear my eye mask throughout the journey. I've had two Valium.'

She'd commandeered the only dry, upholstered bench in Chastity's main deck, which she was stretched out upon like a patient on a psychiatrist's couch with a snoring Fink squeezed in alongside her.

Legs and Byrne were sharing the lid of a damp storage chest.

Byrne had been livid to find his mother on board waiting for them, but Legs had to admire her guts. Poppy hadn't left Farcombe in over five years as far as she was aware, apart from one brief recent visit to a hospital under Hector's escort.

For once she wasn't wearing her turban and smock, her deep red hair liberated in a surprisingly neat bob, her narrow frame layered in a long blue cashmere cardigan, matching polo neck and slim white jeans. She looked unexpectedly stylish and normal, but equally unstable as she fished a hipflask out of a cavernous handbag and helped herself to a large tot, watching with huge, turbulent dark eyes as Byrne paced around the confined space like Odysseus waiting for the tide to turn, clearly longing to set sail.

'You could have suggested somewhere closer to Farcombe to meet, Jamie,' she complained. 'This is decidedly Ancient Mariner.'

Chastity was a salty, seafaring vessel with few home comforts. Outside, masts were clanking, waves lapping and gulls calling.

'We weren't expecting you until tomorrow morning.' He shot Legs an apologetic look. She returned an anxious smile, biting back a repost that she hadn't been expecting Poppy at all. She only hoped he wasn't planning on taking his mother with them to Costa Rica.

'I knew I had to get here as soon as I received your call,' Poppy's smoky voice almost as low as her son's.