Ryan's Revenge. Lee Wilkinson

impatient with her glasses, she stuffed them into her bag and set off through wrought-iron gates that stood open invitingly.

      Passing the Victorian bandstand, and the velvety smooth bowling greens where sedate cream-clad figures were standing in little groups, Virginia took a path that skirted the small boating lake.

      She walked briskly as though trying to outpace her thoughts. But try as she might, they kept returning to Ryan and his reason for coming into the gallery. Why did he want Wednesday’s Child?

      So he had an image of her? Something to metaphorically stick pins into?

      The thought of so much pent-up anger and hatred directed towards herself, frightened her half to death. Her legs starting to tremble, she sank down on the nearest bench, staring blindly across the lake.

      She had hoped that time would lessen the animosity she guessed he must feel towards her.

      But why should it?

      Time hadn’t lessened the way she felt.

      The bewilderment, the sense of betrayal, the resentment, the hurt…

      Without warning, hands came over her eyes and a low, slightly husky voice, a voice that would have made her turn back from the gates of heaven, said close to her ear, ‘Guess who?’

      Her heart seemed to stop beating, robbing her brain of blood and her lungs of oxygen. Faintness washed over her, swirling her into oblivion…

      As the mists began to clear, she found herself held securely against a broad chest, her head resting on a muscular shoulder, the sun warm on her face.

      Gathering her senses as best she could, she tried to struggle free.

      An elderly woman walking past with a liver-and-white spaniel on a lead, gave them a quick, curious glance and, deciding they were lovers, walked on.

      When Virginia made a further, more determined, effort, the imprisoning arms fell away, allowing her to sit upright.

      Her heart pounding like a trip hammer, her breath coming in shallow gasps, she stared into Ryan’s tough, hard-boned face. A face she knew as well as she knew her own. A face she had often looked into while they’d made love.

      The thick dark hair that tried to curl was cut fairly short, but by no means the shaven-headed look she so disliked; his chiselled mouth was as beautiful as she remembered, as were those long-lashed eyes, the colour of indigo.

      Eyes that would have made the most ordinary man extraordinary. Except, of course, that Ryan was far from ordinary. Even without those remarkable eyes he would have stood out in a crowd…

      He put out a hand, and with a proprietary gesture brushed a loose tendril of brown curly hair back from her pale cheek.

      She flinched away as though he’d struck her.

      His expression pained, he protested, ‘My dear Virginia, there’s no need to act as if you’re afraid of me.’

      ‘So you did catch sight of me in the gallery,’ she said hoarsely.

      ‘Just a glimpse before you bolted. Running away seems to be your forte.’

      Biting her lip, she asked, ‘Why didn’t you say anything to Charles?’

      His voice ironic, he told her, ‘I thought I’d surprise you.’

      He’d certainly succeeded in doing that. Though the air was balmy, she found herself shivering. ‘How did you know I’d be in the park?’

      ‘I waited in the mews until I saw you leave the gallery, then I followed you.’

      ‘Why did you follow me?’ she demanded.

      White teeth gleamed in a wolfish smile. ‘I thought it was high time we had a talk.’

      ‘As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to say.’ She jumped to her feet and took an unsteady step.

      ‘Don’t rush off.’ He reached out, and his fingers closed lightly but inexorably around her wrist.

      ‘Let me go,’ she said jerkily. ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

      He drew her back to the bench and, careful not to hurt her, applied just enough downward pressure to make it expedient to sit.

      When she sank down onto the wooden slats, he smiled a little. ‘Well, if you really don’t want to talk, I can think of more exciting things to do.’ His eyes were fixed on her mouth.

      Her voice shrill with panic, she cried, ‘No!’

      ‘Shame,’ he drawled. ‘Though it seems an age since I last kissed you, I can still remember how passionately you used to respond. You’d make little mewing noises in your throat, your nipples would grow firm and—’

      She went hot all over and, seeing nothing else for it, threw in the towel. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

      ‘I want to know why you ran away. Why you left me without a word…’

      Normally, he had a warm, attractive voice, a voice that had always charmed her. Now the underlying ice in it sent a chill right down her spine.

      ‘Why you didn’t at least tell me what was wrong.’

      Feeling a deep and bitter anger, she wrenched her wrist free and rounded on him, eyes flashing. ‘How can you pretend to be so innocent? Pretend not to know “what was wrong”?’

      He sighed. ‘Perhaps you could save the histrionics and just tell me?’

      Unwilling to reveal the extent of her hurt, her desolation, she choked back the angry accusations, and said wearily, ‘It’s over two years ago. I can’t see that it matters now…’

      Of course it mattered. It would always matter.

      ‘We’re different people. The girl I was then no longer exists.’

      ‘You’ve certainly altered,’ he admitted, studying her oval face: the pure bone structure, the long-lashed greeny-grey eyes beneath winged brows, the short straight nose, and lovely passionate mouth.

      ‘Then, you were young and innocent, radiantly pretty, almost incandescent…’

      If she had been, love had made her that way. Happiness was a great beautifier.

      ‘Now you’ve—’ His voice suddenly impeded, he stopped speaking abruptly.

      But she knew well enough what he’d been about to say. Each morning her mirror showed her a woman who had come up against life and lost. A woman whose sparkle had gone, and who was vulnerable, with sad eyes and, despite all her efforts to smile, a mouth that drooped a little at the corners.

      She swallowed hard. ‘I’m surprised you recognised me from just that brief glimpse.’

      ‘I almost didn’t. That severe hairstyle and those glasses change your appearance significantly, and the “Miss Ashley” had me wondering. If I hadn’t been expecting to see you—’

      ‘So you knew I was there?’ she broke in sharply.

      ‘Oh, yes, I knew. I’ve known for some time. Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?’

      Rather than answer, she chose to ask a question of her own, ‘What made you come into the gallery?’

      ‘I decided to check things out on a personal level.’

      ‘You told Charles that you wanted to buy Wednesday’s Child.’

      ‘So I do.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Surely you can guess. Will he be able to get it for me, do you think?’

      ‘I’ve no idea.’

      ‘But not if you can help it?’

      When she made no comment, he added with a smile,