Sharon Kendrick Collection. Sharon Kendrick

black as coal shipped directly from hell, and through his ragged breath he said something which must have been in Gaelic, for it was like no language she had heard before.

      With what seemed a monumental effort, he took his hand away from the soft, silky skin of her inner thigh and levered himself as far away from her as possible—which was not easy, given the rather cramped intimacy of the Aston Martin.

      ‘That wasn’t fair,’ he said, more to himself than to her. ‘Shall I take you home now?’

      It was like being woken up in the middle of the most delicious dream, and Triss stared at him with a look of exasperation on her face. ‘No!’ she responded, so indignantly that Cormack was unable to stop himself from smiling. ‘I thought we were going to bed together.’

      ‘Are you a virgin?’ he demanded suddenly, his Irish accent sounding very distinctive.

      She wondered how he had guessed. Had she kissed like an amateur? It did not occur to her to deny it. ‘Y-yes,’ she answered tentatively.

      He smiled again, only this time it was like the sun coming out on Midsummer Day—bright and blinding—making every other smile seem hopelessly insignificant.

      He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently, his eyes never leaving her face as he did so. ‘Do you know something, Triss?’ he murmured. ‘I’ve never been a man for prayers, but I think you just answered mine in any case! Now, quick and decide. Am I taking you back home, or are you staying here? Either way I’m having breakfast with you tomorrow. And lunch. Supper too. So what do you say?’

      Triss was hooked.

      ‘Sounds like I’m staying,’ she whispered, and let him lead her into his house.

      First, for propriety’s sake, he took her into a state-of-the-art kitchen where he made her scented jasmine tea. Then into his white bedroom—bare save for a simple futon on which he slept. The floorboards were made of pale, honey-coloured wood which gave off the softest sheen. White muslin covered the futon, and it billowed gauzily in the gentle breeze which blew in through the open window.

      There was not even a single painting on any of the stark white walls, for art would have detracted from the living art which was right outside—a picture window filled with all the different blues thrown up by the sea and the sky.

      ‘Now come here,’ he whispered softly.

      He took for ever to undress her, so by the time she lay naked in his arms all her shyness had flown and she was as eager for him as he was for her—indeed, of the two of them, he seemed capable of showing the most restraint.

      And when it was over she cried because he had made it just perfect. He kissed her tears away and asked her to move in with him, and naturally she said yes.

      Triss was due a long holiday, and so she took it straight away, and Cormack postponed his new film script so that they could spend some time together.

      For the first few months it was the relationship she had always dreamed of. And more.

      They had time and money on their hands, but most of all they had each other. They were living in a fairy-tale bubble which kept the rest of the world out, and Triss found herself wondering just how long it could last.

      The bubble burst when Cormack reluctantly told her in bed one morning that he really did have to go into the studio to discuss his screenplay of a novel by an up-and-coming writer.

      As he spoke, Triss felt enormously grateful for the acting skills which her modelling career had instilled in her.

      She put on her brightest smile, then let her mouth drift slowly down his chest to the indentation of his belly, and he gave that helpless groan of surrender she so loved to hear.

      For a while Triss played the dutiful housewife, aware that most of her day seemed to be spent waiting for Cormack to turn up. She had never been much of a cook, and she wasn’t really inclined to learn. Why bother cooking something for Cormack which would invariably be spoiled because he never seemed to get home when he said he would?

      When he did get home, he wanted to take her out—to restaurants and parties and films—which at first Triss enjoyed. But then she began to grow jealous of the attention which other people—especially women—gave him.

      She found that she wanted to stay in their love-nest—to go back to the early days when they had only needed each other—safe from the temptations and distractions of the outside world.

      But Cormack became restless with this stay-at-home life, particularly after one of the increasingly frequent visits from Brad Parfitt. Brad was his powerful and rather ruthless agent, who seemed afraid that the threat of domesticity would make Cormack’s creativity shrivel up and die.

      ‘I need to go out, sweetheart!’ Cormack told her passionately. ‘I need to see other people and the world. I’m a writer, Triss—and I need something to write about!’

      She realised that she was now in a subservient role to Cormack. He refused to let her contribute to the household expenses while she was not working, so, in effect, she was living off him—and in that respect was she any different from her mother?

      And then her agent began to call again, saying that people would not wait for ever to book her, that her face might not always be flavour of the month and that she really ought to start working again—capitalise on her assets while they were still in demand. Which meant travelling again.

      Cormack didn’t like it one bit.

      ‘Why the hell can’t you model here?’ he demanded. ‘In Hollywood?’

      ‘Because I’m an international model,’ answered Triss, unconsciously quoting her agent, word for word. ‘And my looks are too European to appeal to Americans.’

      He shot her a disbelieving look. ‘And you believe that?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Why not let me ask around, find you something?’

      ‘No!’ Her response was swift and definite. ‘I want to be independent, Cormack.’

      ‘Then so be it.’ He shrugged, but his voice carried a trace of unmistakable disquiet.

      So Triss flew first to Paris, then to Rome. And it was in London that she saw the first of the newspaper items, tucked discreetly into the corner of the country’s biggest gossip column. A picture showed Cormack with his arm resting lightly around the shoulders of a reed-thin girl with hair the colour of pale corn and a wistful smile as she gazed up at him, which gave her face a kind of dreamy look.

      They had a fierce row about it on the phone that night, in which Triss interrogated him and he told her that the woman was an actress who would be staring in his film, and that she meant nothing to him. And also that, hey, he’d thought that their relationship was based on trust.

      ‘Oh, it is, Cormack!’ she sobbed. ‘You know it is!’

      ‘Then what the hell is this all about, sweetheart?’

      ‘It’s just that I miss you! And I want to be there.’

      ‘Then be here,’ he told her simply. ‘Catch the next plane out.’

      ‘I can’t. You know I can’t—this job is going to last another week.’

      His Irish accent sounded matter-of-fact. ‘Then if you can’t or won’t change the situation you must accept it, Triss.’ A distant babble of voices hummed like bees on a summer’s day in the background.

      ‘What’s that noise?’ demanded Triss, hating herself for doing it.

      ‘Just some people. Brad. Louie. Nick. Jenna. We’re going out to catch that new film.’ His voice lowered. ‘I miss you, sweetheart.’

      ‘I miss you too,’ she gulped.

      But the seeds of suspicion were sown in a mind which provided fertile growing conditions for more suspicion as each day passed. The times when they were together took on—for Triss, anyway—the sensation