Wild Hunger. CHARLOTTE LAMB

what to snatch and how much will be paid when the painting is delivered. It’s being organised on a huge scale, Gerard, and it’s a worldwide scam.’

      Gerard whistled. ‘That could make some programme! Hey, I know this painting…it was hanging in a gallery in the South of France; it’s a Cézanne.’

      ‘Right—it vanished a year ago, hasn’t been seen since. There’s a strong lead over in France, in Provence; I was thinking of going over there soon to see what I can dig up.’

      ‘You can count me in for that—a few days in Provence sounds great; I think I’m going to enjoy this job!’ grinned Gerard. ‘Oddly enough, I was going to ring you today anyway—I wanted to ask you a few questions.’

      Keira half slept, half daydreamed for several hours and then got up and showered, got dressed. It was twilight by then, early evening. She forced herself to think about supper, and decided to have a little scrambled egg, followed by a banana. Her stomach still felt queasy but she knew she had to re-establish a light eating pattern at once.

      She went downstairs, almost jumping out of her skin when her doorbell rang loudly just as she reached the tiny hallway.

      She hesitated, but she couldn’t pretend not to be in because she had only just switched on the hall light.

      ‘Who is it?’ she asked, close to the door.

      ‘Gerard Findlay,’ said the deep, familiar voice, and she closed her eyes. It would be him, wouldn’t it?

      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘To talk to you. Open this door; I don’t like talking through it with half the street listening. Of course, if you don’t mind everyone hearing what I say to you…’ He paused significantly, and she bit her lip, flushed with anger. He knew very well that she wouldn’t want anyone eavesdropping, especially if he meant to talk about what had happened earlier that day.

      Reluctantly, she slipped the catch and opened the door, very tense as she faced him. He looked her up and down with those hard grey eyes, taking in everything about her, from her faintly damp red hair, tied up with a black ribbon at her nape, down over her slender figure to her pale bare feet. She had not bothered to put on make-up and was wearing a black sweater and jeans. She looked, thought Gerard, like a boy, and yet there was something so intensely feminine about her mouth, naturally full and pink, as velvety as a hedgerow rose, so that he couldn’t help wondering what it would taste like, how it would feel if he kissed it. His gaze wandered to that wild, tumbling hair; she had tried to tame it by tying it back but it suited her better free—he was tempted to catch hold of it, pull off the ribbon and let the hair fall around her face, before running his fingers through it, burying his face in the curling strands.

      Keira stared back at him angrily—how dared he look her over like that?

      ‘Well?’ she demanded, her chin lifted in a defiant movement.

      ‘Feeling better?’ he asked casually.

      She nodded without a smile, her expression offhand, which, if he had known her better, he would have known meant that she was ill at ease and desperately trying to hide it.

      ‘I’m fine. You said you had something to say. Could you be quick? I’m very busy.’

      His lids half lowered at that, a sardonic gleam in his eyes as he surveyed her.

      ‘Going out?’

      She hesitated. ‘I might.’

      ‘Dressed like that?’ His glance ran over her again with open amusement, but underneath that he was reacting very differently. He kept telling himself she was too skinny for his taste, but the truth was he found those small, high breasts sexy, even though the baggy sweater half hid her body—the body he had been remembering all day, the body he had carried in his arms and found as light as a child’s yet with considerable sensual impact.

      ‘I shall change if I go out,’ she coldly told him. ‘You still haven’t told me what you wanted to say.’

      He shrugged. ‘I just wanted to check you were OK.’

      ‘I’m fine, thank you, as I just told you.’ Her tone was curt, rejecting his interest.

      He was undeterred; Gerard Findlay had spent his entire working life persisting in the face of angry resistance to his questioning. ‘What did the doctor say?’

      She gave him a furious look at that, green eyes sparking fire. ‘Why on earth should I tell you that? I know you’re a reporter but that doesn’t give you the right to go around asking people about their private lives! If I told you I might find the story in a gossip column tomorrow!’

      ‘I’m a foreign correspondent on TV, not a gossip columnist with a tabloid!’ he retorted. ‘And I’ve no intention of selling your story to either the newspapers or TV. I saw your light on as I was parking my car, so I thought I’d check that you were OK. I wish I hadn’t bothered now.’

      He turned on his heel and went out, banging the door behind him with a violence that made her nerves shiver. She knew she had been rude and hostile and he had only been showing neighbourly concern, she knew she ought to go after him to apologise but she couldn’t. She had to keep him at arm’s length. She had known that from the minute she first saw him.

      She remembered that afternoon with crystalclarity. It had been a cool November Saturday, the last bronze leaves blowing off the trees and rustling in the gutters, the sky almost entirely colourless.

      Because it was the weekend neither she nor Sara had been working. Normally they did their housework and shopping on a Saturday, and they had just finished tidying the cottage when the removal van had arrived next door.

      ‘This must be our new neighbour,’ Sara had said, leaning out of the window to watch the arrival. The cottage next door had been empty for several weeks and they had known that a new tenant would shortly be taking over.

      The van had parked, the removal men had climbed down and undone the tailboard, at which point Gerard had arrived, roaring up at speed in his little red sports car.

      ‘Nice car!’ Sara commented approvingly, then whistled as the driver got out to unlock the front door of the cottage so that the men could carry his furniture inside.

      ‘Look at those long legs; I do love men with long, long legs.’

      ‘You love men, full stop,’ Keira told her drily.

      ‘True.’ Sara curled up on the window-seat, like a curious little cat, to watch everything that was going on next door. ‘I’m sure I know him. I’ve seen him before somewhere, I just can’t remember where.’

      Keira went off to make coffee for them both. When she got back Sara told her excitedly, ‘I’ve got it! He’s on the news, on TV…not an announcer, a reporter—oh, you know, he was on the other night doing a story from Jordan. He must have just flown home. I’m trying to remember his name…Jeremy? Geoffrey?’

      ‘Gerard,’ said Keira who had recognised him at once. ‘Gerard Findlay.’

      ‘That’s it! I knew I was close.’ Sara stared in fascination as he moved about below in the mews, that lean, powerful body, in jeans and a leather jacket, as graceful as a wild animal’s, a big cat, a leopard or a jaguar. There was that aura of danger about him, the threat of the predator.

      ‘He is simply gorgeous, isn’t he?’ Sara sighed. ‘If I wasn’t madly in love with Rashid I would flip over him.’

      Keira didn’t say anything. She was too busy feeling sick. Her skin was prickling, her stomach clenching; even the hairs on her head had seemed to react to the man moving about between the cottage next door and the street.

      She had always liked him on TV, but in real life he was far sexier. The small screen diminished him. When you saw him crouching down behind ruined houses, or talking against a background of such devastation that it overwhelmed the man doing the commentary, you didn’t realise how tall he was, how powerfully