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‘You ran all that way to tell me that?' she asked, one eyebrow raised provocatively. ‘And in this weather too.'

May was turning out to be a scorchingly hot month. And standing this close to him, aware of the small beads of sweat on his forehead
and
having to fight the urge to lick it off, was doing nothing to cool her down at all.

Reeve opened his mouth—realised he had no possible comeback—and promptly closed it again. He smiled, and shook his head wearily. ‘Annis, Annis, Annis,' he said sorrowfully. ‘What do I have to do to make you give me a chance? Get down on my knees and beg?'

Annis swallowed hard. A vivid picture of him kneeling down before her, dark-blue eyes looking up at her, his lips just a scant inch away from her bare navel . . . She blinked away the fantasy quickly.

‘Well, it would be a start. But not out here, I think,' she drawled, and pushed the door leading into the cool hallway.

Several people who lived in the block of flats arrived back from work and made to brush by them, and Annis was relieved to be able to stop and chat. Funny how being forced to be polite in public could take your mind off less pressing matters. Like having a dangerously attractive man literally breathing down your neck. She could feel Reeve's warm breath on her skin, he was standing so closely behind her.

She paused beside a young mother with a baby in a pram. The baby was gorgeous—but the mother's eyes were all for Reeve, who winked at her as they moved past. Annis pretended not to notice.

As they walked up the second flight of stairs
to
the empty third floor flat, they saw that the door was already ajar.

‘The others are early birds,' Annis said, glancing at her watch. ‘I thought we'd be the first to arrive, for a change.'

Reeve smiled knowingly. ‘Getting excited?'

Now that their weekend gig was fast approaching, Annis had to admit that she was. She was currently working as a receptionist at a fairly nice hotel, but nothing could match the buzz she got when performing. Even in front of only fifty or so people.

Acting was something that was simply in her blood. The chance to recreate a little fantasy, a little glamour, a little romance, to explore human emotion, to find the limits of her talent and stretch it just a little further.

As they walked to the door and pushed it open, they were surprised to see the place deserted. The sound of voices coming from what must be a bedroom surprised them. The cast usually stuck strictly to the big living room only.

‘Do you suppose Ray is laying down the law to someone?' she whispered, a little bit worried.

‘I don't think so,' Reeve said practically. ‘It doesn't sound like anyone I know, anyway.' He too knew the pitfalls of falling foul of producers and directors. ‘Let's hope it's nothing serious,' he added. ‘Nobody wants trouble, least of all me. In my time I've taken
more
flak than the Dambusters.'

Annis grinned. But he was right—it didn't sound like one of the members of the cast being told off. The stranger's voice was more deeply pitched than any of the actors in the upcoming murder mystery weekend, and even through the closed door, held an unmistakable hint of upper class superiority.

‘Look, I've told you . . . and it's . . . working out fine. Just leave me alone to . . . and you'll have it, just . . .' Ray's voice rose and fell, obviously agitated. It had the effect of making only some of the words audible, giving them maddening bits and pieces of the conversation.

‘I wonder what's going on?' Annis said, curious, and took a tentative step further into the room.

Reeve, less inclined to pry, simply shrugged. He had other things on his mind—like finding out some more titbits from Annis Whittington's life story.

‘Have you ever been to Oxford before?' he asked casually, content merely to stare at her. She had the kind of face, side view, that would look absolutely superb on a cameo brooch, all character and soft curves and intriguing, cool beauty. It was only when she turned full-face that one got that tawny spitfire effect!

‘What? Oh, no, I haven't,' she turned towards him, then back to the closed door again, as once more the stranger's voice rumbled warningly. ‘That's all very well . . . but
.
. . paying you good money . . . painting . . . I must have it!'

Reeve scowled, a nasty thought suddenly impinging on him. ‘I wonder if it's not the man who pays the piper in there? I hope it doesn't mean the murder mystery's off. Or, worse, they're going to try and foist a cut in wages on us.'

‘Don't even think that!' Annis wailed. Loudly. And suddenly everything went silent. Then, cautiously, the door opened and Ray stuck his head out. His bald dome was glistening, and his eyes looked distinctly nervous.

‘Oh, hello you two,' he muttered, coming out and shutting the door firmly behind him. ‘You're early. Why don't you go down to the pub and bring some beer back? It's going to be a long, thirsty night's work.' He reached into his wallet for a couple of ten pound notes and Reeve moved across the room to take them easily.

‘Sure Ray, whatever you say,' he agreed casually. But he didn't like the look in the man's eye. Not a bit. He all but dragged Annis out of the room.

‘Let go of me,' she hissed, snatching her arm out of his hand, once they were out into the stairwell. She cast a final, puzzled glance behind her as Reeve shut the door of the flat behind them.

‘You know what curiosity did to the cat,
don't
you?' he asked her drolly. He had the feeling that, whatever Ray's problem was, they didn't want to get caught up in it. Suddenly, and for no reason other than instinct, Reeve began to wonder about Ray. Good ol' Ray.

‘But don't you want to know what that was all about?' she asked in frustration.

‘No. And neither do you, Nosy,' Reeve said, with just enough bite in his voice to surprise her. ‘If Ray's having money trouble, the last thing he needs is for us to get in the way. Just think about your pay cheque and what happened to the cat.' He stopped in the middle of the busy pavement to give her nose a pinch. Annis brushed his hand away, putting her sudden breathlessness down to the stifling city heat.

‘Clown!' she scowled. But she was smiling as she followed him into the blissfully air-conditioned pub, and carried one of the six-packs he handed over to her without complaint. By the time they had returned, Ray's mysterious visitor had gone and the rest of the cast had arrived. They fell on the beer like desert travellers spotting an oasis.

If Ray cast the two of them the odd, anxious look, Annis didn't notice. But Reeve, though he gave no sign of it, definitely did. He made a mental decision to keep a close eye on Annis during their weekend in Oxford. Just in case. Then he quickly forgot his unease as they knuckled down to work, going right through
the
scenes, from Friday to Sunday.

‘Right then, I think that went well,' Ray said when they'd finished. ‘Now, accommodation. I've booked rooms for everyone in a small lodging house in Headington. It's in the suburbs, but only ten minutes' bus ride from the centre of town.'

John Lore and Norman Rix exchanged knowing looks. ‘I can see it now,' John said. ‘No hot water, but plenty of cockroaches and a landlady whose speciality is liver and onions.'

‘Oh don't,' Julie shuddered, whilst Reeve coughed apologetically.

‘There's no need to book me in Ray,' he said with pseudo-regret. I've got a friend in Oxford who's off to the Caribbean next week. He's asked me to house-sit. I know, it's a rotten job, but someone's gotta do it. I can't have the swimming pool, hot tub, Japanese garden and king-sized bed left feeling all alone, can I?'

There were even more riotous cat-calls at this announcement, and on that happy note, the rehearsals broke up.

Annis was not surprised to find him waiting for her in the hall this time. When he fell into step companionably beside her, she tried to tell herself that it meant nothing. That she felt nothing. It didn't do any good, but she tried telling herself so anyway.

‘This place of my friends,' Reeve began casually as they stepped outside into the dark,
warm
night. ‘It's got two en-suite rooms. If you want, you can have the other.'

Annis stopped dead in her tracks. She looked at him, or rather stared at him, her breasts heaving as she fought back a wave of anger. And desire. Oh yes . . . definitely desire.

‘Well that was quick work, even for you,' she finally managed to say.

Reeve sighed heavily. ‘I said it has two en-suite bedrooms Annis,' he reminded her, his voice heavy with irony. ‘As in, one for you, and one for me?

Annis snorted. ‘Huh. And you're seriously trying to tell me that, during the wee small hours of the night, you won't come tip-toeing into my room? Getting lost on your way to the bathroom, perhaps?'

Reeve smiled at her savagely. ‘And, of course, you'd really object if I did, isn't that right, Annis?' he challenged her.

Annis remembered her earlier, very vivid fantasies about him, and flushed angrily. Because he was right, damn him! From the very first moment he'd mentioned having a house to himself during their Oxford break, she had been wondering if he'd ask her. She took a deep, deep breath that seemed to originate from somewhere in her shoes.

‘Reeve,' she said sweetly, ‘you can take your offer of accommodation and . . .'

‘Ah-ah-ah,' he interrupted her. ‘No bad language please. Remember you're a lady.'

Annis
nodded. ‘You're right. And when a lady's been propositioned by a self-satisfied jerk, there's only one thing left for her to do.'

She swung her arm like a cricketer about to bowl a blinder, and carefully angled her open palm with the smooth plane of his right cheek. Unfortunately he was a little too quick for her and ducked at the optimum moment.

Annis found herself swiping air, spinning around and staggering to regain her balance.

Then she heard his rich deep laughter as, once again, he left her alone, gaping and rattled, on the city's pavement.

CHAPTER TEN

Frederica awoke, stretched, yawned extravagantly, and lay grinning up at the ceiling. It was four days since her date with Lorcan Greene, and still she couldn't seem to get the smile to leave her face. The ride in the silver sports car—surely the best stand-in for a knight's white steed?—the romantic Inn, with its rushing trout-filled stream, candlelight and delicious liqueurs. Then the stroll back through Oxford's moonlight streets. And the man . . .

The man who was everything any woman could ever dream of. A real man, who was also many other things—rich, handsome, cultured,
clever,
witty and charming. A man who shared her passion for art. A man who wanted to buy her work. A man who could teach her everything she could ever want to know—from how to make love, to speaking Italian, from appreciating good wine, to making love, from teaching her how to drive, to how to make love.

Frederica sighed and got dressed, then made her way to breakfast in Hall, smiling at the scouts who served the toast and marmalade, at her fellow students, smiling even at the painted portrait of a previous Principal, centuries dead. Life, there was no getting round it, was looking good.

She'd even telephoned her father yesterday, asking him to look out the diaries of one of their ancestors, Francis Delacroix, a competent biographer of the artists of his day.

As she tucked into her cornflakes, she dragged her mind from Lorcan Greene back to her current project. The old canvas was now clean and nearly dry and she was ready to begin. And having Lorcan hovering in the background gave an added piquancy. It was the feeling of beating him, without hurting him, that was so thrilling. He was so much more than she was. More experienced, older, more confident. And whilst that delighted her, in some strange, utterly feminine way, it also made her ache to put just a slight dent in that armour of his.

She
was due at one of his lectures on Friday, and kept imagining the way their eyes would meet across the crowded studio. Could almost see the way his hazel eyes would turn more emerald, becoming smoky as she smiled at him.

Pulling herself together, she finished her toast and walked to the lodge to collect her mail, surprised to find that the diaries had already arrived for her via special delivery. Back in her room, she lay on the bed and reached for the top copy.

The diaries vividly conjured up the mind and mood of an early Victorian gentleman, but it was when she got to the technicalities of life as an artist, that she began to get really excited. Nearly two hours later, she was still making copious notes, and was relieved to discover that she had cleaned the canvas exactly as she should have done.

‘So you won't be able to tell from the age and state of the canvas that it's a fake, Lorcan darling,' she murmured, her voice lingering caressingly over his name, and tinged with triumph.

The imaginary game she was playing with him was intoxicating. Should she let him view the finished painting when it was hung up back in Rainbow House, just to see whether he spotted it as a forgery? No. Too dangerous. And yet . . .

She read on, forgetting lunch, and then
suddenly
sat up with a lurch, hardly daring to believe what she was reading. Paints. Her good old great-great-great grandfather was going into details about paints, and she could have kissed him for his pernickety attention to detail. She'd never expected to be given, on a plate as it were, the recipe for early nineteenth-century oil paints.

As she stared at the faded blue ink on the diary page, she recognised the name of a shop Francis Delacroix had mentioned. One of Oxford's oldest speciality artists shops, she'd heard of it, but had never been there. She quickly reached for her copy of the University Prospectus, turning to the map on the back. She memorised the shop's location and snapped the Prospectus shut with a grin. This was such an unbelievable stroke of luck she could hardly believe it. Of course, the shop wouldn't sell Victorian-style paints ready made. But now she had the recipe, as it were, she would only need to do some experimenting, to get the mixes right. Colours could be opaque, semi-opaque, transparent and semi-transparent. The trick was always in the mixing. She'd just have to keep at it until she was confident she'd got it right.