Oliver shook his head. There was no need to mention that fateful afternoon when Véronique had brought them to his house. The encounter wasn’t something of which he was particularly proud.

‘Never.’

‘It’s a tragedy,’ she declared expansively. ‘And those poor children ...’

Smiling, he leaned closer. ‘Between ourselves, that’s one of the reasons I’m thinking of buying a house down here. They moved to Trezale a year ago. I’m not getting any younger.’ He spread his hands and added sorrowfully, ‘I’d like the chance to get to know them.’

Her emotions heightened by Chablis and champagne, Thea was on the verge of tears. She took his hand in hers. ‘You know, you really are a very nice man.’

Oliver Cassidy’s plush suite was decorated in peacock blues and greens, and subtly lit.

Unashamed of her body, Thea removed her clothes with neither coyness nor ceremony, then crossed the bedroom to stand naked before him.

‘Who’s seducing who?’ he said, appreciating her lack of artifice.

Thea, loosening his tie, looked amused. ‘Does it really matter? We’re adults. I think we both know why we’re here ...’

He removed his jacket and watched her capable fingers unfastening the buttons of his white shirt. She was still smiling, evidently enjoying herself. And she was right, of course; any further games were unnecessary.

Aroused by her straightforward attitude, as well as by the proximity of her unclothed body, Oliver realized that it was years since he had wanted a woman this badly. He put his arms around her, drawing her against him. He was sixty-one years old and his life wasn’t over yet.

‘Yes,’ he said, inhaling her warm scent and pressing a kiss to her temple, where white hair met tanned, enticingly perfumed skin. ‘And I think you are a very nice woman.’

‘You’re so right.’ Closing her eyes, Thea slid her hands inside his unbuttoned shirt. ‘I am.’

Chapter 13

‘If you don’t eat your Weetabix,’ said Maxine, hating the sound of her own voice and frantically casting about for an appropriate threat,

‘What?’ Josh challenged her, his eyes narrowing. In the two days since his father had been back from France, Maxine had definitely changed for the worse. No longer any fun, she had taken to bossing them around, ruthlessly rationing their television time and insisting they do boring school work even though it was still the middle of the summer holidays. If she hadn’t demanded to see his exercise books he would never even have found the squashed Mars bar in the side pocket of his satchel, so the fact that he wasn’t hungry was all her fault anyway. ‘HI don’t eat my Weetabix,’ he repeated mutinously, ‘you’ll what?’

Hell, thought Maxine, who couldn’t have cared less whether or not he ate his stupid breakfast. All she was trying to do was prove to Guy Cassidy that she could do the job he so obviously didn’t think her capable of, and all she was doing was making everyone miserable, including herself.

And Guy, damn him, wasn’t even paying attention. Buried behind his paper, apparently engrossed in the racing pages, he was drinking strong black coffee and ignoring his young son’s act of rebellion. Maxine, who had been so determined to impress him, wondered why she even bothered.

‘I shall begin by shaving your head,’ she replied sweetly, because Josh was inordinately proud of his spiky blond hair. She had also observed the first furtive flickerings of interest in ten-year-old Tanya Trevelyan, whose parents ran the local post office. ‘And then ‘I shall paint red spots all over your face with indelible felt pen. Then I’ll tell Tanya that you’re madly in love with her!’

Ella screamed with laughter. Josh, turning purple, shot Maxine a look of fury.

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Oh yes, I would.’

Grabbing Guy’s arm, he wailed, ‘Dad, tell her she can’t do that! She can’t tell Tanya I love her ...’

But Guy, who appeared to have other matters on his mind, wasn’t interested. ‘Of course she won’t.’ His tone brusque, he glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘Damn, I’m going to be late. I’ll be back this evening at around nine.’

‘Make her promise not to say anything to Tanya,’ Josh begged, still mortified by the prospect of hideous humiliation.

‘Make him promise to eat his Weetabix,’ said Maxine, imitating his nine-year-old whine.

Guy merely looked exasperated. ‘For heaven’s sake!’

‘Thanks for your support,’ muttered Maxine, seizing the bowl of beige mush and clattering it into the sink. ‘You’re a great help.’

Ella, who detested having her hair washed, tugged at her sleeve. Her eyes shining, she said hopefully, ‘Maxine? If I’m naughty, will you shave my head?’

Since attempting to instil discipline and show Guy what a treasure she was had been such a dismal failure, Maxine left the children to their own devices for the rest of the morning. If non-stop TV cartoons were all they wanted to watch, why should she care?

Having washed up the breakfast things and gazed morosely out at the rain sweeping in from the sea, she sat down at eleven o’clock with a big gin and tonic and the portable phone. To cheer herself up and get her own back on Guy for being so stroppy, she was going to phone all her London friends for a good gossip. The fact that it was peak time and would cost him an absolute fortune only made the prospect more enjoyable.

‘You make him sound like an ogre,’ exclaimed Cindy, from the opulent comfort of her four-poster bed in Chelsea. Recently married to a rich-but-ugly industrialist, some twenty-five years older than herself, whose vast stomach, thankfully, was a serious impediment to their sex life, she couldn’t imagine what Maxine had to moan about. ‘I met Guy Cassidy at a party last year and he was absolutely charming. All the women were drooling like dogs! Maxi, you have to admit he’s sensationally attractive...’

‘Looks aren’t everything,’ Maxine drawled, jiggling the ice cubes in her glass and tucking her bare feet beneath her on the sofa. Then, relenting slightly, she added casually, ‘Well, he’s not bad I suppose.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ crowed Cindy, who knew her too well. ‘What are you trying to tell me, that you’ve had your hormones surgically removed? You must fancy him rotten!’

Maxine grinned. Cindy, in London, was a safe enough confidante.

‘OK,’ she admitted, taking a slug of gin. ‘So maybe I do, a bit. But I’d fancy him a lot more if only he’d show a smidgeon of interest in return. You have no idea how demoralizing it is, slapping on the old make-up and making myself generally irresistible when he takes about as much interest in me as he does in the bloody milkman.’

‘Sometimes make-up isn’t enough,’ replied Cindy, ever practical. ‘Sometimes you just have to rip off your pinny and get naked.’

‘You mean I should seduce him?’ At such an awesome prospect, even Maxine blanched.

‘Works every time,’ Cindy said happily. Maxine doubted whether Cindy would even recognise a pinafore if it leapt up and strangled her. She’d certainly never worn one in her life.

‘It wouldn’t work with Guy.’ Gloomily contemplating her almost empty glass, she imagined the scenario. She had a horrid feeling he would laugh his handsome head off. Before firing her, naturally.

‘Why?’ countered Cindy. ‘Have you got fat?’

‘I’ve got Guy Cassidy as a boss,’ Maxine sighed. ‘So far, he’s seen through everything I’ve tried, and all he does is sneer. He’s too smart to fall for an old trick like that.’

‘You’re losing your nerve, girl. Living out in the sticks is doing something to your brain.

Isn’t he worth taking a chance on?’

‘It’s all right for you.’ As Maxine spoke, the doorbell rang. ‘All you did was meet him at a party. You want to try living with him.’

‘Darling, I’d be there like a shot!’ Cindy, her interest aroused, sounded excited. ‘Now there’s an idea. You could invite me down for a weekend. If you’re too chicken, I’ll have a crack at him myself!’

‘I’ll have to go.’ Maxine, uncurling herself, realized that her left leg had been seized by pins and needles and was now completely numb. ‘There’s someone at the door.’

‘Oh pleeease,’ Cindy urged. ‘I’m your friend, aren’t I? Go on, invite me!’

‘No,’ said Maxine bluntly. ‘You’re married.’

‘Don’t be so boring,’ protested Cindy. ‘At least I’m not chicken!’

Cindy didn’t understand, thought Maxine as she made her way awkwardly to the front door, clinging to furniture as she went. She wasn’t chicken either, she just wasn’t prepared to make a complete prat of herself and lose both home and job into the bargain. And she would have her wicked way with Guy Cassidy eventually, she was quite determined on that score. It was simply a matter of timing and technique. And pouncing on him buck-naked, Maxine decided with a small, wry smile, didn’t exactly rate highly in terms of finesse.

She needn’t have bothered to stop en route and grab a handful of fivers from the tin in the kitchen, because it wasn’t the milkman after all.

‘Yes?’ said Maxine, staring at the woman on the doorstep and mentally noting the style and quality of the clothes she wore. She’d bet her last Jaffa cake it wasn’t the Avon lady either.

‘Is Guy here?’ The visitor eyed Maxine in turn, instantly homing in on the blackcurrant jam stain which, courtesy of Ella, adorned her yellow tee-shirt.

The rain was still bucketing down, driven in from the sea by a ferocious wind and hammering against the windows like gravel. Anyone else, caught out in such a storm, would have looked like a scarecrow.

But this woman, wrapped in a long, lean leather coat the colour of toffee apples, worn over a cream and toffee-apple striped silk shirt and cream trousers, seemed impervious to the weather.