LITMIR.BIZ

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doesn’t drink much,’ she lied. Not much he didn’t. ‘Do you want him to ring you when he gets back, Mr Hearne?’

      ‘No, it was you I wanted to talk to. I picked up the impression that you weren’t too keen on the idea of eating at my flat tonight.’

      She was silent—how did she answer that politely?

      He laughed softly. ‘So why don’t I book dinner in a good restaurant? Any preferences?’

      ‘No,’ she said with relief. ‘I’ll leave the choice to you.’

      ‘Okay. I’ll pick you up at seven at your flat. See you then.’

      ‘My address is…’ she began, her words trailing into silence as she realised he had already hung up. That must mean he already knew her address. Well, she knew his, so why should she be surprised about that? No doubt his people had been very busy checking her and Don out ever since their hit began. It didn’t worry her because she had no secrets to hide; however deep they dug his investigators wouldn’t find out anything they could use against her. Don was another story. Who knew what secrets he had to hide?

      He came into her room at five-thirty that day, as charged up as usual, and barked at her. ‘Still here? Go home now and make yourself beautiful for Hearne.’

      She leaned back in her chair, her body giving a weary but graceful stretch in the clinging grey jersey dress she wore.

      ‘I will, soon. What time’s your flight for Sydney tomorrow?’

      ‘First thing, God help me. Now, keep me informed of how your talks with Hearne go, won’t you?’

      ‘Of course. Fax or phone?’

      ‘Phone. Faxes are too risky for this one—other people will read them before I do. I’ll ring you at home in the evening from my hotel, okay? That way we can be fairly sure we aren’t being overheard.’ He turned to go, said over his shoulder, ‘And, Bianca, you won’t wear anything as boring as that dress, will you? I want you to knock Hearne for six and have him putty in your hand by the time I get back.’

      She glared after him. ‘I’ll be polite to the man, I don’t promise anything else!’

      Bianca arrived home half an hour later having taken a taxi instead of her usual underground train. The office was close to a tube station and so was her home—a spacious flat on the top floor of a large Victorian house in Pimlico, just a street or two away from Pimlico underground station. From the high bay windows of her sitting room she had a view across gardens bright with spring flowers to the river. Her bedroom overlooked the back of the house; a large magnolia tree grew right outside, the delicate pale pink candle-like flowers just below her windowsill.

      She opened the window to air the room and a wonderful scent of wallflowers and stocks floated in. Whenever she got home she felt peace descend on her. She had taken a good deal of trouble to give her flat a tranquil feeling—soft, soothing pale colours, landscapes hanging on the walls, a waist-high bookcase running halfway round the sitting room, a good stereo music centre where she played her favourite CDs when she was alone each evening, pretty lamps here and there shedding low light, a spacious, open feel to the rooms. This was where she unwound after the tensions and pressures of the day at work. This was where she could be alone, at ease, untroubled.

      Don had never been invited, although he often dropped hints about wanting to see her home. She did not want the atmosphere ruined for her by memories of Don making a pass, or talking in his assertive, ruthless fashion about work.

      First, she glanced through the mail waiting for her—a bill, a home shopping catalogue, a postcard. She knew who it was from as soon as she saw the picture on the front. Lake Como was where her father now lived. She read the few sentences in his large, black, sprawling handwriting. He was well and so was Maria, his second wife, and their son, Lorenzo, who had been eight yesterday and sent Bianca his love. The weather was wonderful; he hoped she was well, too. It could have been a card sent by a mere acquaintance.

      That was what it was, she thought bitterly—a few words from a virtual stranger. What did she know about her father? From the day he walked out on her and her mother Bianca had only seen him half a dozen times.

      Why had he got in touch now? Had something reminded him she existed? Made him feel a little guilty? Her mouth twisted icily. Well, he would soon forget her again. He always did. It would probably be years before she heard from him once more.

      She dropped the card on the kitchen table and walked through to the bathroom to take a quick shower, then went to her bedroom, in her short black towelling robe, to put on a black bra and panties, then a matching, filmy black slip. Clicking through the clothes in her wardrobe, she finally picked out a simple black tunic dress, sleeveless, with a scoop neckline, and a hem just above the knee. If Matt Hearne should turn out to have expectations she had no intention of fulfilling it would help if she looked a trifle austere.

      With her blonde hair swept up into a French pleat behind her head, tied there with a large black bow set with a diamanté clasp, her face smoothly made up, lips pale pink, lids brushed with green shadow which had a faint glitter to it, her reflection was elegant and cool.

      Automatically she added a touch of her favourite French perfume on pulse points—at her wrists, behind her ears, in the hollow of her throat—then started violently as her front doorbell rang and spilled a little perfume on her dress and the carpet.

      Groaning, she stoppered the bottle and put it back on the dressing table.

      That’s all I need—to smell like a brothel! she thought, brushing her dress and waving her arms about to disperse the strong smell of perfume.

      Why did he have to be early? She wasn’t ready to cope with him yet; she needed more time.

      Why am I so nervous? she wondered, staring into the mirror and seeing a darkness, an anxiety in her eyes.

      She had had so many business dinners and lunches with men, in the past, both alone and with Don. Why was it different this time? Pull yourself together! she told her reflection. He’s just another man. Nothing is different. You can deal with Matt Hearne.

      He rang the doorbell again. Bianca dragged a cool mask over her face, took a deep breath, turned and picked up her purse and a warm cashmere wrap, because although it had been a warm spring day it was chillier now, and went to open the door.

      She found him leaning casually against the wall outside, long and lean and elegant in tailor-made evening clothes, which made him look even taller, slimmer, his waist clipped by the smooth-fitting waistcoat, those very long legs smoothly encased in dark trousers, a white carnation in his buttonhole.

      Bianca’s breath caught in her throat. Why did he have to be so attractive?

      ‘I was beginning to suspect you’d forgotten I was coming,’ he drawled, those cynical blue eyes flickering all over her, making a strange, hot pulse start to beat inside her body.

      What is the matter with me? she angrily asked herself. She must stop behaving like a schoolgirl finding herself alone with a man for the first time in her life.

      ‘Sorry,’ she said tersely. ‘You’re early. I wasn’t quite ready.’

      ‘Are you ready now?’ he queried, one brow lifting in teasing query, and she thought, No! I need more time. Go away; come back later. Maybe then I’ll have got myself under control.

      But she couldn’t say that because it would betray a weakness and in this fight between them she must never let him imagine he could win. She had to stay in command, give the impression she was invulnerable, he wouldn’t get anywhere with her.

      It worried her that she was already having to struggle to keep her cool. Why did this man get under her skin, bother her so much? She had never felt this sort of reaction to anyone else. Oh, she had found men attractive, from time to time, but had always stayed calm, in control, had never felt this disturbing awareness before.

      ‘Do you want me to come in and wait while you finish

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