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creaked open, slammed shut with a booming, echoing sound.

      ‘I’m afraid she doesn’t like the house,’ murmured Clare.

      ‘Well, she won’t be living in it,’ Denzil Black drawled, and Clare’s blue eyes flickered thoughtfully.

      Oh, wouldn’t she? Well, bang went one theory. Obviously he had not brought Helen here to see her future home! Did she realise that?

      Clare didn’t think she did. Helen had been showing an almost proprietorial attitude towards him; Clare was convinced their relationship was not purely professional.

      She met Denzil Black’s glossy-pupilled eyes and saw sardonic amusement in them. He had been watching her, reading her thoughts. A faint pink crept under her skin.

      ‘I wanted her to advise me on the property value,’ he said.

      At once, Clare told him, ‘I think the house is a bargain, considering its size and the very large amount of land that goes with it.’

      He gave her a dry look. ‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? I was hoping Helen would give me a neutral point of view. Shall we go upstairs and see the rest of the place?’

      The house seemed even bigger upstairs, and emptier, too. Every movement they made echoed, their footsteps on floorboards creaked. It was freezingly cold, too.

      Clare would have liked to follow Helen out of here, but she kept reminding herself of the percentage the firm would get from this sale, so she followed Denzil Black around from one bedroom to another, forcing herself to make bright, encouraging comments.

      He must be mad even to consider buying it, she thought, staring at the four-poster bed hung with ancient, tattered dark red curtains, which dominated the main bedroom. The oak shutters were closed across the high windows, there was only one faint lamp beside the bed, and the light reflected in a narrow Gothic-arched oak-framed mirror hanging on the opposite wall. That would probably sell well at auction. It was small enough for modern houses, and perfectly in tune with the current taste for art nouveau.

      As she stared at it, Denzil Black looked round and followed her gaze.

      ‘That’s charming,’ he said at once. ‘I’ll certainly want to keep that.’

      He had very good taste. Curiously, she asked him, ‘What do you actually do, Mr Black? What’s your job?’

      ‘At the moment I don’t have one.’ He shook a curtain, watched the dust fly up from it. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll be paying cash for Dark Tarn, if I buy it. There’ll be no problem about money.’

      That was not what she was thinking about. Her curiosity about him still unsatisfied, she asked, ‘Where do you live at present? I mean, apart from staying at Jimmy Storr’s hotel?’

      He gave her a dry, sardonic look. ‘Los Angeles.’

      Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that. ‘Really? But you’re not American, are you?’ He had a faint accent of some kind, admittedly, but she hadn’t pinned it down as American.

      ‘No. I was born in Scotland, not that I remember anything about it. I left there when I was two years old. I lived in Manchester until I was twenty-one, but I spent a succession of very good holidays in Greenhowe in my late teens.’

      ‘Oh, that’s why you’ve come back?’

      He looked amused. ‘That’s what you wanted to know, was it? Why I wanted to move to Greenhowe? Well, in answer to your next question, I’ve lived in California for years now, mostly around Los Angeles and Beverley Hills.’

      ‘Beverley Hills?’ She stared at him, couldn’t keep back the question, ‘You aren’t in the film business?’ She laughed as she asked, expecting him to shake his head.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, though, calmly.

      ‘Oh.’ Clare was incredulous. ‘Doing what? You’re not an actor?’ But he could be, she thought; he had the looks for it, and, even more, the charisma; she could imagine how dynamic he would look on film.

      ‘I did some acting, many years ago—I was an extra once. But I wanted to be on the other side of the camera. I’ve worked at a number of jobs in the industry—stills photographer, cameraman, set designer. My ambition was to be a director, and I finally got there, but I’m out of a job at the moment, and wanted to get away, which is why I’m back in Britain.’

      ‘And you picked Greenhowe because you remembered it better than Scotland?’ she worked out, and he nodded.

      ‘I had very happy memories of Greenhowe; summers on the beach, walks across the moors. A travel agent booked me into Jimmy Storr’s hotel, so here I am.’ He dusted his hands with a handkerchief, grimacing. ‘This whole house is filthy.’ He leaned against the wall, those dark eyes cool and steady. ‘Well, let’s talk business, Miss Summer. The price is ridiculous, considering the state of the house, as I’m sure you realise. I shall have to spend a fortune renovating it before I can move in. I’ll tell you what I’m prepared to pay, and you can talk to the owner and let Helen know his decision. I won’t bargain. I’m making one offer and that’s it. If he turns it down, I won’t want to discuss the matter any further.’

      Clare watched him calmly, nodding.

      He named the price he was prepared to pay. It was far less than she had hoped and her blue eyes hardened.

      ‘Well, of course I’ll put your offer to my client,’ she said flatly. ‘But I doubt if he will be ready to agree to such a low amount.’

      ‘How long has the house been on the market? Some years, isn’t it? Empty houses deteriorate quickly; this one is falling to bits. In another two years the roof will go, kids will smash the windows, the garden will be completely wild, and then it won’t take long to become a total ruin.’

      He was right, but Clare wasn’t admitting it. ‘I’ll talk to my client,’ she said in a cold, remote voice, and turned to walk back down the stairs and out of the house, with Denzil Black behind her.

      The storm was deepening outside, the wind howling around the house like a wolf. There was a crash of thunder and a white zigzag of lightning split the sky, then the chandelier lights flickered and went out, plunging the whole house into darkness. Clare was halfway down the wide, elaborately carved staircase, and she stopped dead, blind in the unexpected blackness.

      Denzil Black was right behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped about ten feet into the air. ‘Have you got a torch?’

      ‘In the car,’ she told him, her voice a mere thread of sound.

      He sighed. ‘Never mind, I can see in the dark. Give me your hand.’ His fingers slid down her shoulder to her arm, down her arm to entwine around her hand; Clare would have liked to pull away—he had the strangest effect on her—but she didn’t like being here alone with him in the dark, she urgently needed to get out of this house, so she let him lead her down the stairs.

      When they got to the car Helen was standing beside it and ran towards them, flung herself at Denzil Black, close to hysteria. ‘All the lights went out! There was a terrible flash of lightning...didn’t you see it? The storm’s right overhead; I was afraid it would hit the car, then I saw this flash...and the lights all went out. I called and called—didn’t you hear me? How could you leave me out here all by myself in the dark, all this time?’

      ‘You shouldn’t get so upset!’ soothed Denzil Black, his head bent over hers. ‘I can hear your heart beating like a drum!’ He lowered his head, Clare thought she saw him kissing Helen’s neck and hurriedly looked away, very flushed. They might remember she was there! She didn’t want to be an audience for their lovemaking!

      Helen gave a long, ragged sigh, winding her arms around him. ‘Oh, Denzil...’

      ‘Shh...you’re safe now,’ he soothed. ‘We’ll drop Miss Summer off and then I’ll take you home. Get back into the car now. You’ll feel better when you’re

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