Stranger From The Past. PENNY JORDAN

to confront him, Sybilla told him firmly, ‘You’re a married man, Ray, and even if I were attracted to you that fact alone would mean that as far as I’m concerned there could not be any kind of relationship between us.’

      ‘The old-fashioned sort, are you? Well, marriage isn’t what it used to be, Sybilla. In fact, my marriage—well, let’s just say—’

      ‘Let’s just not say anything,’ Sybilla interrupted him firmly. ‘We’re here to discuss business, Ray, and nothing more. And now I really do have to leave. I’ve got another appointment this afternoon,’ she fibbed, ‘and I need to get back to the office first.’

      She could tell he wasn’t pleased but there was no way she was going to be blackmailed into a relationship with him she did not want. No way at all.

      She was still feeling raw and uncomfortable when she neared the office, her discomfort over lunch lying under her skin like an irritating piece of grit, but not so much because of Ray Lewis. No, the cause of her discomfort lay more deeply buried within her psyche than that. It was because of her run-in with Gareth that she felt so at odds with herself, so angry with herself for allowing Gareth to provoke her into that unseemly, almost juvenile, retaliation. To provoke her. She frowned as she worried at the words. Why on earth should Gareth have wanted to provoke her? Surely, like her, the last thing he could want was any kind of communication between them whatsoever?

      He had made it plain enough to his grandfather ten years ago how little he’d relished her childish adoration of him.

      Had he provoked her or was she looking for excuses for her own behaviour? Was she…? But no. His comment to her had been a definite and deliberate provocation. Stripping the whole affair of all of its emotional camouflage and looking at it calmly and logically, she could see absolutely no reason for Gareth to have made the comment he had unless he had wanted to provoke her. But why? So that he could give vent to his contempt of her. But why should that be necessary?

      Unless perhaps he had wanted to underline to her how much he despised her. Was he afraid that she might still harbour that idiotic teenage crush? Her face burned with indignation at the thought. That had been ten years ago. She had changed since then. She was a woman now.

      A woman. Was she? She was an adult certainly, but a woman…She tried not to remember the number of times she had backed off from members of his sex, from all the men who had wanted her…desired her…all the men whose sexual advances she had rejected in a flurry of protests and fear.

      Fear not of them as men, but of allowing them to get too close to her in case ultimately they hurt her emotionally. As Gareth had hurt her.

      But it was ridiculous to remain fixated on something…someone who had played such a relatively small part in her life. Other girls had similar crushes and went on to form other, more mature relationships; why hadn’t she?

      Was it something to do with the trauma of overhearing him telling his grandfather that he was aware of her feelings and most certainly did not feel flattered by them? Was it because she was too sensitive…too afraid of loving another man who would not want that love? But that hadn’t been love she had felt for Gareth. She had been a child. She had been fifteen…and an immature fifteen at that, but not too immature to understand what the sensations she’d experienced whenever she’d thought about Gareth meant. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of so many disturbing thoughts, thoughts she had successfully managed to push to the back of her mind in recent years, telling herself that she was simply one of those women more interested in remaining independent and establishing a career than in men.

      By the time she walked into the office her head was aching. Meg exclaimed sympathetically over her pale face and strained eyes, offering her an aspirin.

      She shook her head, telling her wryly, ‘I’m allergic to them. They always make me most vilely sick. No, I’ll be OK. It’s just a tension headache, that’s all.’

      ‘I hope you’re right,’ Meg told her. ‘There’s a bug going round that starts off with a headache and then develops as full-blown flu. Half the town seems to be going down with it.’

      ‘Don’t tempt fate,’ Sybilla pleaded. ‘The last thing we need right now is a flu epidemic.’

      There had been several calls while she’d been out, and as she attended to these she started signing the letters Meg had prepared in her absence. At four o’clock she had a girl to interview, a possible new addition to their pool of temps, who had trained as a computer-operator prior to the birth of her first baby, but who now wanted to get back to work. They were always on the look-out for reliable staff, and if Ray did ask them to provide him with extra temps while he was expanding his business they would need to take on at least three new girls. Of course, after her lunch-date with him he might decide to place his business elsewhere. If he did, then he did, she decided grimly, half inclined to wish that he would, even though she knew from a business point of view his was a very valuable contract.

      At ten to four Belinda rang to confirm that she would be back at the office in the morning.

      ‘How did the lunch with Ray Lewis go?’ she asked.

      ‘Not very well,’ Sybilla admitted.

      ‘Mm. I’m sorry I had to land you with that one, but I know how good you are at being tactful and diplomatic.’

      Tactful and diplomatic. Well she certainly hadn’t exhibited those virtues today, Sybilla reflected a couple of hours later as she prepared to leave the office.

      The girl she had interviewed had been very promising, and had left agreeing to think over their terms and come back to them.

      Now all she had to do was spend the evening going over the paperwork she was taking home with her, and with a bit of luck the next day she would be able to enjoy the day off she had forgone today.

      Her garden was crying out for some attention and she had promised herself that this year she would redecorate her spare room. She had also promised her parents she would visit them and spend more than her normal brief weekend with them, and even Belinda had warned her that if she didn’t allow herself a proper holiday this year she would be in danger of becoming a workaholic.

      Her head was still aching when she got home and the back of her throat felt sore as well.

      She told herself that it was all that talking over lunch that was responsible for her sore throat, sternly refusing to admit the possibility that she was succumbing to the virulent strain of flu Meg had told her was sweeping the town.

      She couldn’t afford to be ill, she told herself grimly half an hour later as she sipped a mug of coffee. And she didn’t intend to be, either.

      Even so, at eight o’clock, when her headache still hadn’t gone away and her sore throat persisted, she found herself giving in to the desire to go upstairs and soak in the luxury of a long hot bath, prior to indulging in an early night.

      Wearily she finished her coffee and headed for the stairs.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE bath might have eased the tension of the day from Sybilla’s muscles, but it had done nothing to alleviate either the pain in her head or her sore throat, she admitted as she climbed out of the steaming scented water and wrapped herself in a large dry towel, frowning as she suddenly heard someone ringing her doorbell.

      She paused, hoping that whoever it was might go away, but she had always been one of those people who found it impossible to ignore either a ringing telephone or a doorbell, and whenever she’d tried the anxiety and guilt she’d experienced had been so acute that she had learned it was far easier to give in and to acknowledge their summons no matter how inconvenient it might be.

      It would probably only be Emily, her neighbour, anyway, calling round to thank her for getting their shopping this morning and hopeful for a bit of a chat.

      She hurried downstairs, her feet still bare, her body damp beneath her towel, apologising as she started to open the door.

      ‘Sorry