Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford

grasped Nick by the shoulders and hugged him affectionately. ‘So long, Nicky.’

      On the drive back to London Victor Mason sat immersed in his thoughts, which mostly centred on Nick Latimer. He thought of the long and lonely journey he was about to embark on, of the tragic reason for his unexpected return to the States, of the sorrowful period of time ahead of his friend. Victor was still having trouble reconciling himself to Marcia’s death. It was inconceivable that she was gone. How unpredictable life was, how precarious, and there were no guarantees about anything. Except for that ultimate guarantee. Death. We’re all so vulnerable, so fragile. We’re here one moment, gone the next. He thought of the hours he wasted on inconsequential things, hours which once frittered away could never be regained nor relived, and he was filled with regret about the precious time he had so carelessly squandered in the past.

      It was then he made a solemn promise to himself: From now on every hour of his life would count, and he would live every day to the fullest, for who knew about tomorrow, and what it would bring. Indeed, who knew how many tomorrows there would be.

       Chapter Twenty-Three

      Francesca pushed open the kitchen door cautiously and was assailed by the waves of heat and steam that billowed out. She recoiled, stepping back for a split second, and then edged inside, peering through the vaporous haze. She said, ‘I wish you’d let me do something to help.’

      Victor, who was poised in concentration over the Aga stove, swung around at the sound of her voice. She saw at once that his face was flushed and that he was the picture of domesticity in the kitchen, where all manner of foodstuffs lay scattered on the table and the counter top near the sink. He had taken off his tie, his sleeves were rolled up, and he wore one of her dainty cotton aprons tied around his waist. She hid a smile, and ventured, ‘Can I at least stir one of the pots for you?’

      He shook his head slowly, giving her his lazy smile. ‘Negative. There’s a line about too many cooks spoiling the broth that happens to be the truth. Besides, you don’t think I’d let an English girl tamper with my specialities, do you?’ he teased. ‘I told you earlier only a paesano knows how to cook a real Italian dinner. So go away, and let me get back to my culinary creations.’ He grinned at her and put down the wooden spoon he was holding. ‘There is one thing you can do though.’ He strode to the refrigerator and opened the door, handing her a bottle of pink champagne. ‘Stick this in the ice bucket, over there on the table. And please go back to the drawing room. I’ll join you in a few minutes. It’s far too steamy in here, and I don’t want you catching another cold after I’ve just cured the last one.’

      Francesca shivered as she went through the adjoining dining room, acknowledging to herself that Victor had been right. Earlier in the evening, when he had first arrived, he had pronounced the dining room chilly and hardly the ideal spot for her after a bout of influenza and several days lying prostrate in bed. He had suggested they should have supper in the drawing room, and after she had produced a folding card table, he had covered it with a red gingham cloth, which he had found in the kitchen cupboard, and brought two chairs from the dining room.

      Francesca eyed the table now as she walked in with the champagne. He had placed it to one side of the fireplace and set it himself, refusing to let her help, had even added a silver candlestick with a red candle and a tulip in a bud vase, charming touches she had not anticipated from a man, least of all him. Once this task had been accomplished, Victor had disappeared into the kitchen to unpack the bags of groceries he had bought in Soho, and to start preparing the meal. She had trailed after him, volunteering to help, but he had resolutely shooed her away and literally closed the door in her face. Francesca had shrugged helplessly. She had come to understand that Victor Mason could be very assertive, and just a mite overpowering. At the beginning of the week she had felt debilitated and had been unable to maintain her wails of protest, had allowed him to take charge in his masterful way. Tonight she was feeling far too happy to fight him, enjoying the attention he was showering on her.

      She examined the cork in the bottle, decided to let Victor struggle with it, and moved in the direction of the fireplace. Seating herself in the wing chair, she smoothed down her skirt, adjusted the collar on her sweater and sat back, propping her feet on the fender, waiting for him to emerge from the kitchen. The heat from the blazing logs in the hearth had brought out the varied scents of the flowers and, to Francesca, the drawing room smelled and looked like a garden bower in mid-summer, the profusion of lovely blooms enhancing the inherent beauty of the charming room, so mellow and tranquil in the firelight. Several great Chinese porcelain vases spilled with masses of the scarlet-tipped white tulips, the pale and fragile narcissi flourished in a number of smaller china bowls, whilst the Limoges cachepot planted with hyacinths stood in the centre of the coffee table. The mimosa had also been beautiful, and delicately fragrant, but the blossoms had faded and dried out quickly, as they always did, and reluctantly she had thrown them away on Thursday.

      Francesca leaned forward and breathed deeply over the hyacinths, inhaling their exquisite scent. It struck her that there was something infinitely luxurious about the fresh flowers at this time of the year, particularly since it still seemed like winter to her, with the perpetual thunder-storms and gales and dark overcast skies that had not lifted all week. She touched the smooth waxy petals of the hyacinths, recalling her excitement when the delivery van had arrived from Moyses Stevens on Monday afternoon. She had held her breath as she tore open the envelope and pulled out the card, believing it to be from Victor, for only he would have been so lavish and sent a veritable truckload of flowers. Her face had dropped when she read the signatures, and severe disappointment had followed sharply on the heels of expectation, crushing her joy. She was quite certain Nick had been the initiator of the gesture, that they were actually his gift, and only his, and that he had simply included Victor’s name as a matter of course, or perhaps as a form of courtesy.

      Now Francesca’s expression changed, became pensive, her mind fastening on Nicholas Latimer. Her thoughts were sad as she envisioned his grief, knowing how anguished she would feel if her beloved Kim had been so tragically killed. When Victor had told her about Marcia’s accident, she had asked him for Nicky’s address in New York. She had immediately written a short but expressive letter, offering her sympathy and condolences, filled with genuine affection and concern for Nick, who had become such a dear friend. Victor had posted the letter for her the next day. It seemed to Francesca that Victor had been doing so many things for her this past week, and certainly she owed her rapid recovery to his devoted ministrations. She smiled. He had clucked over her and coddled her, and was continuing to do so, and she wished with all of her young heart that it would never end. But of course it would. That was an inevitability, since her health was practically restored to normal.

      Francesca sat back in the chair and closed her eyes, contemplating Victor Mason, whom she now recognized was a most remarkable man, her mind dwelling on his many kindnesses to her.

      Victor had made his presence more potently felt than ever several days ago, on Tuesday. That morning he had telephoned Francesca to ask how she was feeling. She had said she was a bit better, but it had not taken much insight on his part to realize that she was resorting to a white lie. Francesca had sounded dreadful with her raw, raspy throat and nagging cough. A string of pertinent questions, and a great deal of persistence from him, had left her no option but to confess she had not been visited by a doctor and that there was no one to take care of her. Under his fierce pressure, she had admitted that Mrs Moggs, who only came twice a week to clean the house, would not be returning until Friday. Imperiously brushing aside her warnings about germs and the possibility of his catching the ’flu, Victor had announced he was coming over to see her. A short while later he had arrived, armed with antibiotics and cough mixture from the doctor used by Monarch Pictures, lemons, oranges and two large glass jars of chicken soup from Les Ambassadeurs.

      Francesca had been self-conscious and embarrassed when first greeting him in the hall, aware that she was looking ghastly. Here she was, confronting the only man for whom she wanted to be beautiful, and he was seeing her at her very worst. Her face had been pale and drawn, her nose red, her eyes watering, her hair rumpled