LITMIR.BIZ

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her companion. ‘How old are you?’

      For a moment Rose thought of lying, but something about James Sinclair decided her against it. ‘Eighteen,’ she admitted reluctantly, certain that from the lofty heights of twenty-two he would instantly lose interest. Then she remembered her coaching. ‘And, if you want my CV, I’m reading English Literature, like foreign films, and go for the occasional run to keep fit. Sorry you asked?’ she finished, laughing.

      ‘Not at all.’ He smiled down at her when they paused at the entrance to her building.

      ‘How about you?’ she said casually.

      Sinclair hesitated, then gave her the information she already knew, that he was doing business studies and economics.

      Time to go before he got bored. Rose smiled at him and held out her hand. ‘Thank you for troubling to come after me. I appreciate it. Goodnight.’

      His eyes narrowed in warning. ‘Before you go, Rose Dryden, promise you won’t walk home alone at night again.’

      She nodded obediently.

      ‘Say it,’ he ordered.

      ‘All right—I promise.’

      ‘Good. See you on the track some time.’ He shook the hand solemnly, gave her the slow-burning smile, and Rose, heart thumping at the sight of it, managed a friendly little nod and went inside.

      When Con arrived, earlier than usual, she checked to see Rose was awake, then beckoned Fabia into the room with her. ‘Are you all right, Rose?’

      ‘Fine.’ She abandoned her book and sat up cross-legged on the bed, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

      ‘Someone looks pleased with herself!’ said Fabia, lolling at the foot of the bed. ‘Mind you, I would be too, if Sinclair had bought me some nuts. Have you eaten them?’

      Not for the world would Rose have admitted that the unopened packet was zipped safely away in her tote bag. ‘I think I left them in the pub.’

      Con settled herself in the room’s only chair. ‘Admit it, Rose, the plan’s working like a charm.’

      ‘Better than you think!’ said Rose in jubilation.

      The other girls stared, wide-eyed when they heard Sinclair had gone after her to see her home.

      ‘Did he kiss you goodnight?’ demanded Fabia.

      ‘Of course not!’ Rose smiled demurely. ‘We shook hands.’

      The other two laughed their heads off, then Con got up to make some coffee, respect in her eyes. ‘I never thought you’d pull it off, you know. Sinclair’s immunity to our sex is legendary.’

      Rose pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he sees me as one of the opposite sex, exactly.’

      Fabia shrieked with laughter. ‘Are you kidding? With all that hair and the magnificent paint job we did, not to mention a shape to die for in that sexy little sweater of Con’s—of course he thinks of you as a girl.’

      ‘But a very young one,’ said Rose, depressed. ‘He gave me a right old lecture about walking home alone.’

      Con was undeterred. ‘Sinclair noticed you, remembered you, wanted to buy you a drink, then came after you to make sure you were safe. Don’t worry about the little girl aspect, ducky—remember Lolita!’

      Embarking on phase two of Con’s plan, Rose missed the next day’s run, but after completing a third circuit in solitude the following morning had begun to think all the heart-pounding effort was in vain by the time the familiar athletic figure appeared. She returned the smile Sinclair gave her as he passed, completed the circuit, then left before he could lap her, or she fell in a heap. Whichever came first.

      She wouldn’t have admitted it to the others, but it was an effort of will to stay away from the track next morning. But none at all to stay in the same night.

      ‘I must do some work,’ she said firmly. Because Sinclair never patronised it, an evening at the students’ union no longer held the same allure.

      Rose no longer needed a morning call for her run. Next morning she was out of the room by six-thirty, shivering in the cold half-light as she hurried to the stadium, openly looking forward, now, to her early-morning glimpse of Sinclair. To her horror he was there before her again. She groaned. Now she’d have to do even more circuits just to keep up the myth that she liked running. She jogged up and down on the spot for a moment, to warn muscles of the coming ordeal, then started down the track at a speed moderate enough to give her any hope of staying the course long enough to look convincing.

      When Sinclair passed her this time she was rewarded with a ‘Hi!’ to go with the smile as he went flying by.

      ‘Hi,’ panted Rose, and ran on, making no attempt to catch up with him. This, she soon found, wasn’t necessary. The next time Sinclair caught up with her he slowed down and ran with her.

      ‘Come on, try to speed up a little,’ he exhorted, not even out of breath.

      Rose did her best to obey, but after three gruelling circuits she flung up her hands in surrender and slumped down at the side of the track, her head on her knees as she tried to get her breath back.

      Sinclair hunkered down beside her, looking concerned. ‘Hey, sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to finish you off.’

      She turned a crimson, sweating face up to his. ‘I’m not—in your—class,’ she gasped.

      ‘You easily could be. Come every morning for a while. You’ll soon get into shape. Not,’ he added, with the smile that was no help to Rose in trying to breathe normally, ‘that there’s anything wrong with yours.’

      She scrambled hastily to her feet, glad that her crimson face could hardly turn redder. ‘Time I got back to shower.’

      ‘Ah. You don’t care for personal remarks.’

      She liked his a lot. Rose smiled non-committally as he fell in step beside her, wondering if he meant to see her back to the flat again.

      ‘I bring some kit and have a shower here sometimes when I’ve got lectures,’ he said casually. ‘If you do the same tomorrow we could have breakfast afterwards in the transport café down the hill.’

      Rose felt a rush of excitement, wondering if this would be Con’s idea of progress. Not that it mattered. By this time, plan or no plan, Rose Dryden was totally committed to her crusade to make the lofty, uninterested-in-women James Sinclair fall in love with her. Nothing was going to persuade her from it until she either succeeded, or he told her to get lost.

      ‘If it doesn’t appeal to you, don’t worry,’ he said curtly, and turned away.

      Rose came to with a start. ‘It appeals very much. I’d like that.’

      ‘Right, then,’ he said briskly. ‘See you in the morning.’

      Rose passed acquaintances by unnoticed as she jogged back to the flat in a dream. Her reception committee was waiting impatiently, as usual, demanding every last detail of the encounter.

      ‘Wow,’ said Fabia in awe. ‘You’re definitely winning, Rose.’

      ‘But the prize is breakfast in a transport caff after slogging round the racetrack, not a candlelit dinner for two,’ Rose reminded her, deliberately prosaic to hide her elation.

      ‘Where Sinclair’s concerned,’ said Con, laughing, ‘it probably counts for the same thing.’

      When Rose arrived at the stadium next morning, sports bag in hand, Sinclair was racing round the track at a speed that exhausted her to watch.

      ‘Hi,’ he panted, coming to a stop beside her. ‘Come on, a slow turn or two to warm up, then speed up a bit each circuit as you go along.’

      When they took off round the track together Sinclair somehow managed to restrain

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