Sharon Kendrick Collection

‘Well, you don’t look it. ‘I’m going to ring down for some soup for you. You can’t go home in that state.’

‘Guy, no—’

‘Guy, yes,’ he countered, reaching out to pick up the phone, completely overriding her objections.

Soup and sandwiches arrived with the kind of speed which suggested to Sabrina that he might have already ordered them. Had that been the muffled conversation with the landlord she had overheard?

She told herself that she felt too weak to face food, but the stern look on his dark face warned her that if she refused to eat, he didn’t look averse to picking up the spoon and actually feeding her!

Guy sat and watched her. The thick broth sent steam over her pale features, but gradually, as the bowl emptied, some of the roses began to creep back into her cheeks. He saw her half-heartedly bite into a sandwich and then look at it with something approaching awakening—as if she had only just learnt how good food could taste when you were hungry.

Sabrina wiped at her lips with a napkin and sighed, aware of the glittering grey eyes which were following her movements with a steely kind of fascination. He hadn’t, she realised, eaten a single thing—he’d just sat there and watched her like a hawk.

She flicked him a questioning look. ‘You’re not hungry?’

‘No, I’m not hungry,’ he said flatly. ‘And I think it’s time I got you home.’

She shook her head. He was too potent a presence, who had demonstrated the depth of his contempt for her. She didn’t want him invading any more of her space. She didn’t need any more aching reminders of just how devastating he really was.

She had blown it with Guy Masters by being too greedy. She should have given him her telephone number and gone back to her own hotel that night.

But nothing could change the fact that she had been desperate for him, driven on by an unrecognisable hunger she’d been unable to control.

Well, it was too late now. What man wouldn’t be filled with contempt at what she had allowed to happen, and so soon?

‘Why don’t you just call me a cab?’ she said tiredly. ‘I don’t need you to come with me.’

‘I’m taking you home,’ he said firmly. He saw her open her mouth and shook his head with the kind of dominance that brooked no argument. ‘Oh, no, Sabrina,’ he said softly. ‘This has nothing to do with independence, or pride. You’re in no state to go home on your own—’

‘Yes, I am!’ she protested.

‘You are not,’ he contradicted impatiently. ‘And you can sit there arguing with me all night long, but it won’t change a thing. I’m not budging on this—I’m taking you home.’

But her ice-blue eyes looked so helpless as she stared up at him that he found himself unable to resist the temptation to brush a stray strand of hair away from her cheek, feeling its warm tremble beneath his fingertip.

His grey gaze burned into her and for one heart-stopping moment she thought that he had relented. She saw the sudden, impulsive softening of his mouth and the way that his eyes had now brightened to glittering jet and thought that he was about to kiss her.

But all he did was open the door. ‘Come on,’ he said abruptly. ‘Time we were out of here.’

He made her sit down while he went to settle up with the landlord, gently placing her against some cushions as if she really were pregnant. And Sabrina bit her lip as an inexplicable yearning to carry his black-haired baby washed over her.

Outside the pub was no ordinary taxi—somehow he had managed to magic up a long, low limousine from somewhere. Sabrina registered the gleaming bodywork with a disbelieving blink as Guy opened the door of the car. She supposed that Salisbury did have vehicles like this for hire—it was just that she had never encountered them before. Not in her world.

‘Here, put this on,’ he said, as he slid into the back seat beside her and buckled up her seat belt, still playing the guardian angel.

‘Where are we going?’ asked the driver.

‘Wilton Street,’ she responded quietly.

The driver half turned in his seat and shot a quick look in Guy’s direction. ‘Wilton Street?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course she’s sure!’ snapped Guy, and flicked shut the glass partition, immediately distracted by the sweet perfume of her hair.

Sabrina felt the bitter ache of emptiness as the huge car negotiated its way into a tiny road, where the houses were small and boxy, each one looking exactly the same. She stole a glance at the stony perfection of his profile, knowing that she would never see him again after tonight.

And maybe it was best that she didn’t. They weren’t just from different worlds—more like different universes.

The driver flipped the glass partition open. ‘What number Wilton Street?’

‘Number th-three,’ she stumbled.

Guy heard the tremble in her voice as the car pulled to a halt in front of a tiny house and frowned.

‘You’re crying!’ he exclaimed softly.

‘N-no, I’m not.’ She gulped, but took the crisp, white handkerchief which he offered her and buried her nose in it.

‘Why are you crying? Because I spoke so harshly?’

She heard the self-recrimination which had hardened his voice and shook her head wordlessly as she tried to bring the gulping sobs under control. How could she tell him that she didn’t really know why she was crying? That maybe her tears were for Michael—maybe just for herself. Or maybe she was mourning a golden relationship with Guy Masters which had been doomed from the very outset.

He waited until the shuddering of her breathing had slowed down in something approaching calm and then he got out of the car and went round to open the door for her.

‘Wait here for me,’ he said to the driver.

He led Sabrina up the narrow front path and rang the doorbell. Moments later the door was opened by a woman who was unmistakably Sabrina’s mother. She had an amazing pair of identical ice-blue eyes and her hair was still bright—apart from the occasional touch of grey. And Guy had a sudden powerful vision of what Sabrina would look like in her fifties.

Mrs Cooper’s eyes flew open in alarm as she saw her daughter’s pale and tear-stained face. ‘Sabrina, darling!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever is it?’ She looked up at the tall, dark man who was supporting her. ‘Who are you? What’s happened to her?’

‘Nothing at all has happened to harm her.’ Guy injected calm into his voice as Sabrina shook off his restraining hand and sat down abruptly at the foot of the staircase. ‘She’s a little upset,’ he said. ‘Although I suppose that’s understandable, under the circumstances.’

Mrs Cooper nodded. ‘So she’s told you about Michael?’

Again Guy felt the sharp spear of unreasonable jealousy. ‘Yes, she has.’

Sabrina wondered why they were talking about her as if she wasn’t there. Or why her mother was staring up at Guy with trust rather than suspicion.

‘My name is Guy Masters,’ he said. ‘Sabrina and I met in Venice.’ He took a business card from his coat pocket and gave it to her. ‘Will you give this to your daughter in the morning?’ he said, moving to the staircase and bending his head down so that it was almost touching Sabrina’s.

‘Ring me if you need to talk,’ he said grimly.

And then he was gone and the hall seemed suddenly so empty—so lacking in the strength and vitality generated by that dark, mocking face and that beautiful, strong body.

Mrs Cooper shut the door behind him, and turned to her daughter. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened, darling?’

Sabrina shook her head wearily. ‘It’s too complicated to explain. I’m OK now.’

‘Are you sure?’