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to see him again!’

      ‘That’s unfortunate, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Why? And what connection do you have with Neil?’ she demanded.

      ‘A—family interest and deep concern at this point in time, Miss Newnham. You see, he’s lying dangerously ill in a Sydney hospital after a car accident, and he’s asking for you.’

      Georgia blinked. ‘Asking for me? Why?’

      Those hazel eyes mocked her. ‘I think we both know that.’

      ‘No, I don’t,’ Georgia contradicted him. ‘I mean, I’m sorry to hear he’s ill—I wouldn’t wish anything drastic on him—but there’s no reason why he should be asking for me. After what I said to him on the last occasion we met, I’m sure I’m the last person he’d be asking for, in fact.’

      ‘What did you say to him?’ William Brady enquired evenly, but with an odd little undertone of menace.

      ‘I told him,’ Georgia said carefully, ‘that he was the last person on earth I would take my clothes off for.’

      ‘Bravo,’ William Brady said, then added, ‘What a pity you waited until he was thoroughly enslaved to make that declaration, though.’

      ‘I didn’t and he wasn’t.’ Georgia frowned. ‘There’s something going on here I don’t understand. Neil Dettweiler—who I met at a party, incidentally, and became fairly friendly with in a casual sort of way—expressed a desire to paint my portrait, you see, Mr Brady. He said I didn’t have that sort of chocolate-box prettiness that was so common but something much more…’ She stopped as William Brady quite pointedly examined her face for chocolate-box prettiness or otherwise.

      After a moment during which she was curiously unable to string together any words, he said, ‘I see what he means—you’ve lovely skin, which you’ve obviously taken good care of, Miss Newnham, despite your occupation, and quite stunning eyes,’ he mused. ‘But no, not pretty, although well bred, rather patrician, in fact, good bone structure—interesting and quite memorable, I’m sure.’

      ‘Thank you.’ Georgia subjected him to an extremely arrogant and patrician look from her stunning eyes. ‘But, to get back to what I was saying, I agreed, and started to sit for him—which I have to say I found intolerably boring.’ She grimaced. ‘Be that as it may, he seemed quite sure I was Archibald Prize material, which would be a big coup for him. Only then, when the portrait was about halfway through, he became fixated with the idea that a full-length nude of me would be even more desirable.

      ‘That, Mr Shakespeare,’ Georgia said gently, ‘was when I made my declaration. Is it all clear to you now?’ she added sweetly.

      ‘Perfectly,’ he agreed. ‘And quite consistent with everything else I’ve heard about you, Miss Newnham. “A rare old breaker of hearts—not to mention other things,” someone described you as. Be that as it may, to use your own terminology, and although to my mind I’m not sure what he’s done to deserve the likes of you, tomorrow morning you’ll be flying down to Sydney with me to Neil’s bedside.

      ‘I hope I make myself plain,’ he said, coldly and pointedly. ‘Because I’d hate to have to indulge in any undignified brawling with you, Miss Newnham—but don’t imagine I wouldn’t.’

      Georgia stared into his eyes for a long moment, and was stunned to see how angry and utterly contemptuous they were. It occurred to her that she was trapped in her loft with this well-spoken but angry man, who was not only a lot taller than she was but also possessed a lean, very fit kind of grace and a magnificently wide pair of shoulders…Trapped because there was only one exit and there was no one to call for help.

      She said, almost thoughtfully, as the pause stretched, ‘Well, I don’t know about you, Will, but I’m cold, wet and starving. So you do whatever you like, but I intend to change and make a meal.’

      ‘What a good idea,’ William Brady murmured, and accepted with cool amusement the flash of fire that came his way from her eyes before she stalked into her bedroom.

      

      ‘There we are—reheated cannelloni. But the salad is fresh and the bread is home-made. Would you like wine, beer—whatever?’

      Georgia had showered and changed into a fleecylined blue tracksuit, and had deliberately and defiantly put on a pair of old sheepskin slippers which she normally didn’t parade to the public but did wear on cold evenings at home alone. She’d also tied her hair back, and during all these preparations reviewed with growing chagrin her options for escape, only to decide there were none, for several reasons.

      The bedrooms and bathroom in her loft were lit by means of skylights; those same skylights admitted air—but only with the aid of a long pole with a hook on the end. There were conventional windows in the lounge and kitchen area, with pretty, flower-studded window-boxes outside, but William Brady was sitting in the lounge, and while he wasn’t exactly exhibiting the air of someone guarding all such exits she had no doubt that he was. He was also sitting beside her desk, upon which resided her only telephone.

      ‘A glass of wine would be nice,’ he observed.

      ‘Please do the honours, then,’ Georgia invited politely, and gestured to her small wine rack. She’d set the table with a red and white checked cloth, matching napkins and a small bowl of flowers. She’d wrapped the warmed bread in a snowy napkin and the salad was colourful, tossed in a zesty dressing of her own making. She dished up the cannelloni as he chose and opened a bottle of Beaujolais.

      ‘This is very good,’ he murmured after tasting the cannelloni. ‘Did you make it yourself?’

      ‘Indeed I did,’ Georgia replied. ‘Whatever else men don’t deserve about me, they would have nothing to object to in my culinary expertise.’

      ‘Point taken, Miss Newnham.’

      ‘Yes, well…’ Georgia picked up her wineglass and studied the ruby depths. ‘Should we get back to the point? Your conviction, in other words, that I am the last of the great seductresses and that I callously spurned Neil Dettweiler. Do go on.’

      He glanced at her briefly and continued to eat for a moment. Then he said, ‘Do people call you Blondie, Miss Newnham?’

      ‘Some do,’ she conceded. ‘My family, mainly. It’s not a courtesy I extend to a lot of people for the simple reason that it reminds me of when I was about four, which was when the name first came into existence. It’s something I’ve not been able to cure them of calling me on the odd occasion—my family, I mean. But I tell you what—you are giving me the absolute willies by persisting with Miss Newnham.’

      ‘Are you inviting me to call you Blondie?’

      ‘No,’ she said evenly, ‘Georgia will do. But what has this got to do with the price of eggs, Will?’

      ‘Just that Neil wrote to me about you—he used your nickname, and he’s still using it in his delirium.’

      ‘Neil never called me Blondie—’

      ‘Perhaps not to your face,’ William Brady said mildly. ‘But in his letter to me he described you as a blonde goddess and said he hadn’t realised what love was about until he met you. He mentioned that your background was impeccable and teeming with judges and barristers…’

      He stopped and raised an ironic eyebrow at her as she made a disbelieving, inarticulate sound, then went on remorselessly, ‘Then, when I went through his things, what should I discover but your unfinished portrait? Whose name should be in his diary, heavily underscored, but yours—with one of your doorkeys?’

      Georgia, who’d been staring at William Brady wide-eyed and with her mouth open, closed her mouth with a click. ‘This is…this is…I’m lost for words. No, I’m not. There’s got to be some terrible mistake. Other than the fact that Neil and I appear to you to have parted, why have

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