‘And having to listen to your endless whingeing is hardly going to cheer me up.’

‘You don’t want me to stay?’ Maxine looked hurt and Janey experienced a twinge of guilt.

‘I do,’ she protested as the shop door swung open and Paula, having completed the morning’s deliveries, dropped the keys to the van on the counter. ‘Of course I’d like you to stay.

It’s just that the flat’s so small, and I don’t have a spare bedroom.’

‘I see.’ Maxine shrugged ‘Well, that’s OK. I’ll go and see Mum.’

Janey looked doubtful. Their mother would only complain that nothing cramped one’s style more effectively than a stray daughter hanging around the place. And Thea Vaughan’s highly individual lifestyle didn’t take kindly to cramping. She wasn’t exactly the slippers-and-home-made-sponge-cake type.

But Maxine knew that as well as she did, so Janey didn’t bother to voice these thoughts.

Instead, she said, ‘And you’d need some kind of job.’

‘Oh God.’ Maxine was looking gloomier by the second. Working had never been one of her strong points. ‘I suppose I would. But what on earth can I do?’

Paula, who was a lot more thoughtful than Maxine, returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea.

‘Paula, this is my sister Maxine,’ said Janey, seizing one of the mugs with relief. ‘Now, take a good look at her and tell me what kind of work she might be able to cope with.’

Maxine, perched on the stool next to the counter with her long brown legs stretched out before her, gave the young girl an encouraging smile. But nothing fazed Paula.

‘Here in Trezale, you mean?’ As requested, she studied Maxine for several seconds. ‘Well, selling your body’s out for a start. Too many giggling girlies on the beach at this time of year, giving it away for free.’

Maxine burst out laughing. ‘That’s too bad.’

‘Seriously,’ protested Janey, weaving fronds of fern into the circular mesh base of the first wreath.

‘Bar work?’

‘Ugh.’ Maxine cringed, rejecting the idea at once. ‘Too hard on the feet.’

‘Hotel receptionist?’ suggested Paula, unperturbed. ‘The Abbey’s advertising in the paper this week.’

But Maxine shook her head. ‘I’d have to be polite to ghastly tourists.’

Nannying.’ Paula looked pleased with herself. ‘The family my mother cleans for is losing theirs. You could be a nanny.’

Maxine looked amused. ‘Oh no I couldn’t.’

But Janey’s interest was aroused by this item of news. ‘That’s an idea!’ she exclaimed, temporarily abandoning the wreath. ‘You’d be able to live in. That way, you’d have a job and a place to stay. Max, it’d be great!’

‘Apart from one small problem,’ replied Maxine flatly. ‘If there’s one thing I hate more than tourists, it’s children. Children and babies and nappies. Yuk!’ she added with a shudder of revulsion. ‘Especially nappies.’

‘These two are a bit old for nappies,’ said Paula, ever practical. ‘Josh is nine and Ella’s seven. I’ve met them a few times. They’re nice kids.’

‘And they’d be at school during the day,’ put in Janey, her tone encouraging.

But Maxine, sensing that she was being ganged up on, pulled a face. ‘I’m just not the nannyish type. ‘I mean, for heaven’s sake, do I look like Julie Andrews?’

Losing patience, Janey returned her attention to work. ‘OK, you’ve made your point. You probably wouldn’t have got the job anyway,’ she added, unable to resist the dig. ‘Most people prefer trained nannies and there’d be enough of those queuing up when they realize who they’ll be working for.’

Needled by the insult, Maxine’s brown eyes glittered. ‘Why, who is it?’ she demanded, ready to find fault with any prospective employer who wouldn’t choose her.

‘Guy Cassidy.’ Janey shook droplets of water from the stems of a handful of yellow freesias. ‘He moved into Trezale House just over a year ago. He’s a ‘

‘Photographer!’ squealed Maxine, looking as if she was about to topple off her stool. ‘Guy Cassidy,’ she repeated faintly. ‘The Guy Cassidy? Janey, are you having me on?’

Bingo, thought Janey, exchanging glances with Paula and hiding her smile.

‘Of course not.’ She looked affronted. ‘Why ever should I? And what difference does it make anyway? You hate kids. You just said so, yourself.’

‘What difference does it make?’ echoed Maxine, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. ‘Janey, are you quite mad? It makes all the difference in the world. That man is gorgeous ...’

Chapter 3

‘God, this is hard work,’ complained Guy, crumpling up yet another sheet of paper and lobbing it in the general direction of the wastepaper basket at the side of the bed. Fixing his son and daughter with a stern expression, he added, ‘And it’s too early in the day for this kind of thing. ‘I don’t know why you two can’t write your own advert, anyway.’

Ella, squirming at his side, nudged his arm. ‘Daddy, I can’t spell!’

‘And you hate those kind of adverts,’ chided Josh, who was sprawled across the foot of the bed. Running his finger down the ‘Help Wanted’ columns of the slim magazine in which the finished advertisement would be placed, he found a shining example and began to read aloud in an exaggerated baby voice.

‘Hello, my name is Bunty and ‘I am two yearth old. I need thomebody to look after me whilst Mummy and Daddy are working. We live in a big houthe in Thurrey, with a thwimming pool. You muthn’t thmoke ...’

‘OK, OK,’ said Guy with resignation. ‘So it wasn’t one of my better ideas. Maybe I’ll just put, "Two spoilt brats require stern battleaxe of a nanny to feed them cold porridge and beat them daily." How about that?’ Ella giggled. ‘I don’t like cold porridge.’

‘You should say, "Widow with two children needs kind nanny",’ suggested Josh, who had been giving the matter some thought.

‘Widower,’ Guy corrected him. ‘Widows are female. Men are called widowers.’

‘I know why you’re a man,’ Ella chimed in. Josh, at the foot of the bed, grinned.

It was too early in the day for this, too. Guy, closing his eyes for a moment and mentally bracing himself, said, ‘Go on then. Why am I a man?’

‘Because you haven’t any bosoms on your chest,’ declared his daughter with an air of importance. And you don’t wear a bra.’

It was four-thirty when the doorbell rang. Berenice, the soon-to-be-married departing nanny, had taken Ella into St Ives for the afternoon on a shopping trip. Guy was busy in the darkroom, developing black and white prints, when Josh knocked on the door and informed him that he had a visitor.

‘She said it was important,’ he told Guy, his forehead creasing in a frown as he struggled to remember. ‘I don’t know who she is, but I’m sure I’ve seen her somewhere before.’

Maxine was standing before the sitting-room window, admiring the stupendous view of clifftops and sea. When she turned and smiled at Guy, and came towards him with her hand outstretched, he realized at once why his son had thought her familiar yet been unable to place her.

‘Mr Cassidy?’ she said demurely. ‘My name is Vaughan. Maxine Vaughan. It’s kind of you to see me.’

She was here in his house, thought Guy with inward amusement. He didn’t really have much choice. But he was, at the same time, intrigued. Maxine Vaughan was an undeniably attractive girl in her mid-twenties. Her long, corn-blond hair was pulled back from her face in a neat plait, her make-up carefully unobtrusive. The dark green jacket and skirt were a couple of sizes too big for her and she was wearing extremely sensible shoes. It was all very convincing, very plausible. Guy was impressed by the extent of the effort she had made.

‘My pleasure,’ he replied easily, taking her proffered hand and registering short fingernails, a clear nail polish and - oh dear, first sign of a slip-up - a genuine Cartier wristwatch. ‘How can I help you, Miss Vaughan?’

Maxine took a deep, steadying breath and hoped her palms weren’t damp. She’d known, of course, that Guy Cassidy was gorgeous, but in the actual flesh he was even more devastatingly attractive than she’d imagined. With those thickly lashed, deep blue eyes, incredible cheekbones and white teeth offset by a dark tan, he was almost too perfect. But the threat of perfection was redeemed by a quirky smile, slightly crooked eyebrows and that famously tousled black hair.

He exuded sex appeal without even trying, she realized. He possessed an indefinable charisma. Not to mention a body to die for.

‘I’m hoping we can help each other,’ said Maxine. Then, because her knees were on the verge of giving way, she added, ‘Would you mind if I sat down?’

‘Please do.’ Having concluded that she must be either a journalist or a model desperate for a break, Guy gently mimicked her formal style of speech. Either way, he would give her no more than ten minutes; he was all for a spot of personal enterprise but her unexpected arrival wasn’t exactly well timed. He had work to do, phone calls to make and a nine-year-old son demanding to be taken for a swim before dinner.

He glanced at his watch. Maxine, sensing his veiled impatience, took another deep breath and plunged in. ‘Right, Mr Cassidy, I understand you’ll shortly be requiring a replacement nanny for your children. And since I myself am an experienced nanny, I’d like to offer my services.’

It was a good start, but the rest of the interview wasn’t going according to plan, she realized several minutes later. And she hadn’t the faintest idea why not.

On the surface, at least, Guy Cassidy was asking the appropriate questions and she was supplying faultless replies, but at the same time she had a horrible feeling he wasn’t taking her seriously. Worse, that he was inwardly laughing at her.