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

with the rouge, and then she smoothed her hair back away from her face.

      ‘You look very lovely.’

      Francesca started and turned quickly. Victor was standing in the doorway, his hands resting on the door jamb, regarding her thoughtfully. Mortified to have been caught preening and primping in front of the mirror, she felt the sudden heat flooding into her face.

      ‘Thank you,’ she finally said in a tiny voice, and looked away, moving closer to the drinks chest under the ornate gilded mirror. ‘I was about to open the champagne,’ she explained, and started to untwist the wire on the cork, averting her flushed face.

      ‘Here, let me do that,’ he said, striding into the room. In an instant he was beside her, his hands over hers on the bottle. His touch was like an electric shock, and for a moment her fingers remained immobile under his. She gazed down at his hands, tanned and large, and at his strong sunburned arms lightly speckled with dark hairs, and her throat tightened with desire. She felt the heat rush into her face again, and, not daring to look at him, she extracted her hands gently and went to the fireplace, suddenly conscious of a trembling in her legs. I’ll never get through the evening, she told herself shakily, gratefully sinking into the chair. You stupid fool, she inwardly chastised herself and, swallowing hard, she took a firm grip on her emotions. And then she thought: Enjoy this evening for what it is. Don’t dwell on what it might be. That will be self-defeating, ruinous.

      He was standing over her then, offering her the glass of champagne, smiling affably, his dark eyes warm. She looked up at him timorously and smiled back, taking the glass, relieved that her equilibrium was partially restored, that her hand was steady, her eyes no longer moist.

      They said ‘cheers’ in unison, and Victor sat down on the sofa, lit a cigarette and remarked, ‘I forgot to ask you how your father is doing? Is he on the mend?’

      ‘Yes, he’s much better, thank you, and being the model patient –’

      ‘Like father, like daughter,’ he interjected with a lopsided grin.

      ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she murmured softly, and went on, ‘I haven’t really thanked you properly for looking after me, Victor. You’ve been super. So thoughtful and kind. I know I owe my speedy recovery entirely to you, and your … your coddling.’

      ‘I was glad to do what I could.’

      Francesca rose, glanced at him, flashed him a fleeting smile. ‘I have something for you. A small gift.’

      ‘Hey, that’s not necessary,’ he began. She stopped at the Sheraton bookcase and opened the glass doors. Admiration flicked onto his face. She’s got the greatest legs in the world. She’s verboten, he reminded himself. Watch it, Mason. He dragged his eyes away.

      She was back in a moment and handed him a small package, wrapped in decorative floral paper and tied with a silver ribbon. ‘I hope you like it, Victor.’

      ‘You didn’t have to do this, you know,’ he muttered, nevertheless looking pleased as he began to unwrap the gift, filled with curiosity. He found himself holding a copy of Wuthering Heights, and he saw at once that it was very old. The wine Moroccan-leather binding was faded, and the pages, as he turned them slowly, crackled dryly, were yellowed at the edges by the passing of time, and fragile. He lifted his eyes and looked across at Francesca and shook his head. ‘I can’t accept this. It’s obviously an antique and rare, and most probably very valuable –’

      ‘It’s a first edition, and it is quite rare. If you look at the frontispiece, you’ll see the date, 1847. And you must take it. I want you to have it. I’ll be insulted if you refuse.’

      ‘But it must be worth a great deal of money. What about your father? I mean, won’t he object? What will he say?’

      Francesca stiffened, irritated by his inference that she could not act without parental consent. He’s treating me like a child again, she thought angrily, but said, as mildly as possible, ‘It has nothing to do with my father. The book belongs to me. It’s from a collection of first edition classics my mother left me, which was handed down from her grandfather, Lord Drummond, to her father, and so on. That happens to be my mother’s family crest on the cover, not Daddy’s. And so you see, I can give it away if I wish. I want you to have it as a memento of the film.’

      Victor sat back, gripping the book, unaccountably at a loss for words, infinitely moved by the gift, and not the least because it was something so very personal, part of her history, a cherished heirloom that had been passed down in her family over the years. He leafed through the pages again, his expression introspective, and for a reason he did not comprehend, a lump came into his throat. After a long moment, he said, ‘Thank you. I shall treasure it always, Francesca. It’s one of the nicest and most meaningful presents anyone has ever given me.’

      ‘I’m so glad,’ she said, her eyes shining with pleasure at his most obvious pleasure. Rising, she took their glasses and refilled them. ‘I’m sorry we’ve had to cancel the weekend visit to Langley, because of Daddy’s accident.’ She refrained from mentioning that her father had fallen off the stepladder in the library when he had been searching for this particular book for her. She went on, ‘He’s terribly disappointed, and so is Doris. They were really looking forward to it, I know Katharine was too. But perhaps it’s just as well. It wouldn’t be the same without Nicky, would it?’ she asked, placing the drink on the table in front of him, returning to the chair.

      ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he responded in the quietest of voices, wondering about her most apparent interest in Nick. To his amazement, and considerable annoyance, he experienced a spurt of jealousy. Good God, he thought, startled at himself, and pushed this unfamiliar emotion aside, recognizing it was unworthy of him, and also patently ridiculous. Conscious of the sudden silence, he cleared his throat a shade too noisily. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of Nick, but I guess it’s a bit too soon. No doubt he’ll surface next week. And he’ll be all right. He’s pretty resilient,’ he finished, almost to himself.

      ‘Yes, don’t worry, he’ll be fine.’ Francesca watched him closely, detecting the concern in his voice. In an effort to divert the subject away from Nicky, she exclaimed, with a show of cheerfulness, ‘When I spoke to Doris this afternoon, she suggested we arrange the weekend house party to coincide with the start of exterior shooting in Yorkshire, or alternatively, when you film at the castle. It would be rather fun to do it then, don’t you think?’

      ‘Yes, it’s a terrific idea,’ he answered, brightening. ‘Who’s Doris, by the way? You’ve mentioned her several times in the past few days.’

      ‘Of course, you don’t know about Doris Asternan. She’s my father’s girl friend, and a jolly nice person. Really super. I’m all for her, and so is Kim. We both wish Daddy would stop procrastinating and pop the question, then we could all relax, especially Doris.’

      Victor chuckled, highly amused. ‘You seem anxious to have a stepmother, but more to the point, does your father really want a wife? That’s the key question, isn’t it?’

      ‘Of course he does!’ This was said with such youthful confidence, Victor was further entertained. Before he could comment, she swept on, ‘Well, let me put it this way, he needs Doris as his wife. She’s perfect for him.’

      ‘Is she now!’ His glance was keen, and he saw from her expression that she was being utterly sincere. But then she knew no other way to be. He found himself warming to her, admiring her. ‘Doris is damned lucky to have you as a champion, Francesca. Damned lucky. Most daughters wouldn’t react as you’re reacting, and with such open-mindedness, such generosity.’

      ‘Oh, children can be pretty selfish. They usually think only of themselves, and they don’t give a hoot about the single parent, or his or her problems,’ she remarked, becoming serious. ‘They don’t take into consideration the need for companionship, not to mention love and friendship and a shared life. I suppose they simply dismiss loneliness, believe it’s of no consequence. But people can die of loneliness.’ She waited, and waited, and when no response was forthcoming,