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

she passed in front of him, Victor caught her arm, grasping it firmly and pulling her to him. He leaned into her, and said, ‘You ought to be arrested for looking the way you do. You’ll be the cause of my undoing yet.’

      The glances she threw him was reproving but her eyes were flirtatious and teasing. ‘Hadn’t you better be careful, Mr Mason. Someone might get the wrong impression, if they see you grabbing me so … so possessively. I’m supposed to be your chum, not your inamorata. Remember?’

      ‘Touché. And I’ll deal with you later, madame. In the meantime, stand here and give me the dope on everyone.’

      ‘Do you know, you can be quite bossy at times,’ Francesca said, but, nevertheless, she picked up her glass and joined him in front of the fire. ‘I’ll do my best, but I don’t know all the people who’ve been invited. Ah, that’s Astrid hugging Diana now. Princess Astrid von Böler.’ She drew closer, dropped her voice and added, with a small laugh, ‘A great love of Kim’s, until her husband broke up their affaire.’

      Victor’s brows lifted. ‘No kidding! Your brother has good taste. Who’s that with her? The husband?’

      ‘No. Some Polish count with an unpronounceable name. Her latest … friend, I believe.’

      ‘And the other people?’

      ‘Graf and Gräfin Durmann. He’s something to do with banking, I think.’

      ‘What’s Graf? A title?’

      ‘Yes, it means count. Anyway, I’ve met them before, and they’re awfully nice. His first name’s Heinrich, and hers is Tatiana.’

      Within the next few minutes all the guests streamed in, eight couples in all. Francesca endeavoured to acquaint Victor with a few salient details about those she knew, but too quickly they were surrounded by people. Somehow Victor was separated from her. She was stranded near the fireplace with Astrid and the Polish count, along with two other men she had not previously met. They closed in on her, apparently much taken. Yet she was conscious of Victor all the time.

      Effortlessly, he was the focus of attention in the room, had taken the centre of the stage and was holding it. Francesca knew this was not only by virtue of his fame, but also because of his startling looks, his physique and bearing, his commanding manner and his natural charm. Since he was six feet three and towered above everyone else, it was easy for Francesca to keep him in her line of vision. Also, every so often, he would seek her out with his eyes, signalling a private message with a particular look, a smile, occasionally a quick, knowing wink.

      But as the cocktail hour continued, with Clara, and another maid hired for the evening, serving the drinks and canapés, Francesca abandoned any thought of joining him. Most of the women had formed a phalanx around him, and were vying for his attention. And very adroitly, and somewhat maddeningly, he appeared to be flirting with each and every one of them. Francesca experienced a spurt of jealousy, but doused it, and retaliated in kind in her own quiet way. Günther Rundt, an acquaintance of Kim’s, had beaten a swift path to her side. He was being flattering and attentive, lavishly so in fact, and she responded with smiles, a few coquettish glances, and summoned an enthralled expression to her face, hanging onto his every word. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Victor staring at her at one moment, and she stifled a laugh. He looked really miffed. She was delighted.

      Eventually Manfred announced that dinner was served and the group slowly drifted towards the dining room. Victor caught up with Francesca and said in a low voice, ‘Who’s that guy?’

      ‘Which guy do you mean?’ she asked innocently, adopting a nonplussed air.

      ‘You know. The one who was practically grinding you into the wall.’

      She laughed lightly. ‘Oh, that’s a friend of Kim’s … I assume you do mean Günther. He’s very sweet.’

      ‘If that’s what you call sweet, then I’m angelic,’ he countered, falling in step. She did not answer, and as they went into the room, he added, ‘I hope we’re sitting together, baby.’

      ‘I doubt it. I’m sure you’ll be sitting at Diana’s right, I at Christian’s right. I expect dinner’ll be quite formal tonight.’

      ‘Then I’ll have to be satisfied with thoughts of what’s yet to come … later, when we’re alone,’ he murmured through the side of his mouth. Surreptitiously he ran his fingers down her back before striding ahead to join Diana, who was beckoning him.

      The grace and beauty of the Schloss, elements which had struck Victor so forcefully when he had arrived yesterday, were in great evidence tonight. The ambience in the dining room was decidedly romantic, had an almost fairytale quality. This was created in no small measure by the incredible number of white candles, in all manner of holders, which had been massed together in clusters everywhere, stood on the chests, the sideboard, the mantelpiece and the windowsills. A log fire flared in the immense stone hearth and the room was washed in a soft and mellow light. Dozens of votive candles had been used to encircle the small bowls of flowers, six in all, which marched down the centre of the long refectory table, and interspersed between the bowls were Meissen porcelain birds in the most radiant of colours. The table had been set with the finest china, crystal and silver, and was the decorative focal point. There were flowers and flowering plants banked around the perimeter of the room, and these introduced additional life and colour to an already breathtaking setting.

      The flickering candlelight was flattering, and everyone looked their best, the women beautiful in their elegant gowns and glittering jewels, the men handsome in their dinner jackets. It was a young group and they were festive. The conversation was brisk, sparkling, entertaining, and Victor was enjoying himself, even though he was seated far away from Francesca. Occasionally he glanced down the table at her and caught her eye, and she would smile obliquely and continue her conversation. She was anchored between Christian and Vladimir, the Polish count, whilst he was next to Diana, as Francesca had said he would be. Astrid was also at his end of the table, and although she was charming, for the most part he concentrated his attention on Diana.

      Francesca also discovered she was having a good time. Her gaiety and warmth quickly surfaced, and her naturalness was endearing to everyone. She laughed a lot, since Vladimir was proving to be a stimulating dinner companion, with his agility of wit and incisive repartee, and hilarity was high at their end of the table. However, as the dinner progressed, Francesca began to realize the others were taking it for granted that Victor was Diana’s date for the evening. That he was now encouraging this in subtle ways was most apparent, and Francesca smothered a little smile, fully understanding his motivation. She also marvelled at his stamina. For a man who had left her room as dawn broke, after a sleepless night, had skied all morning and then made passionate love to her again in the afternoon, he was in remarkable fettle and showed no outward signs of fatigue whatsoever. Twenty years younger though she might be, she was vaguely conscious of aching limbs and a tiredness induced by their nocturnal activities.

      Leaning forward ever so slightly, she looked at Victor, feeling the unique thrill of possession. Whatever anyone present believed, and whomever he flirted with, he nonetheless belonged to her. She, too, now thought of later, of when they would be alone, and a shiver ran through her. How extraordinary life is, she mused. A week ago she had been dying on the vine, miserable with longing for him, and he so seemingly beyond her tender reach; tonight she was more alive than at any other time in her life. And all because of him. He had become the centre of her world. Everyone and everything dimmed in comparison …

      Vladimir said, ‘I understand the Langley Collection is remarkable for its great paintings. Presumably it is open to the public, is it not?’

      ‘Oh yes,’ Francesca responded, dragging her mind back to the present proceedings. ‘Every day during the summer months, and at weekends in the winter. My father believes great art should be shared. If ever you come to England, you must stop off at Langley to see the collection. You’re obviously interested in art.’

      ‘Thank you. How kind. Yes, I would love to visit your home. And I am very keen on art, especially old masters.’ Vladimir