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Reeve was waiting in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs, and when he saw her, he stepped in front of her.

Annis gasped. ‘Damn it, Morgan, you
scared
me. Do you have to lurk about in the dark like that?'

Reeve scowled. ‘Well, excuse me for breathing!' Would he ever do anything right in this woman's eyes? He somehow doubted it. ‘Look, why don't we go for a drink somewhere?' Reeve asked, following her out on to the lamp-lit streets. ‘Ray's right. We should try to get along.'

‘It's late,' Annis said discouragingly.

‘I know a small club just around the corner. It's private—members only. We can get a good glass of Bordeaux there.' Annis grimaced and planted her arms on her hips. ‘Now why doesn't that surprise me? Daddy's club is it?' And who the hell could afford a Bordeaux, good or indifferent? Not struggling actresses that was for sure.

Reeve drew in a long, calming breath. ‘Look lady, why don't you just drop the attitude for a while, huh? It's wearing thin,' he gritted.

And Annis knew that he was right. But the sight of all that powerful male beauty was making her unusually reckless.

‘What's the matter Reeve? You like to dish it out, but don't like to take it, is that it?' she shot back.

Now why, she thought exasperatedly, had she said that?

Reeve's eyes flashed. His hands clenched spasmodically by his sides as he took a half-step towards her. The little . . . All right. She
wanted
him to handle it. His pleasure! ‘Suit yourself,' he said, and shrugged one shoulder. ‘I thought we should bury the hatchet, but if you want to keep it childish and petty . . .' He reached for her suddenly, dragging her into his arms before she knew what had hit her. She felt herself cannon against a wall of solid, warm muscle.

Annis gave a startled shriek, but then his lips were on hers, and she became aware of several things all at once. Those discreetly bulging muscles of his weren't merely the result of hours spent preening in a gym—the man was strong! She could feel herself being lifted off the ground, with effortless ease. She became aware of the harsh heat of his lips, in contrast to the probing delicacy of his tongue. Her nose picked up the pleasing fresh pine scent of his aftershave.

Her heart gave one convulsive leap. Her insides contracted in a short, sharp, molten-hot flood of desire . . . And then he thrust her from him.

She blinked. ‘What the hell was that supposed to prove?' she squeaked, too breathless to shout, as she had intended.

Reeve shook his head. What had he meant to prove? Somehow, in the last few seconds, he'd forgotten. Not that he'd ever admit as much to her! ‘Well, I'm supposed to be the enemy, aren't I Annis?' he drawled mockingly. ‘I just thought I'd let you know what you were
taking
on.' And with that, he turned and left her.

Literally walked away from her.

The louse!

CHAPTER SIX

Frederica didn't usually leave Oxford during the week, but her latest canvas was finished, she already had four good pieces for her Finals Show, and nobody was going to jump on her if she went home mid-week. This didn't stop her feeling guilty though, as she walked up the narrow country lane towards home.

Frederica loved the countryside in May. It was, without doubt, the best time to be in England. But as she turned up the familiar drive of Rainbow House, she acknowledged to herself that she wouldn't be here at all if wasn't for her father.

And Lorcan Greene. Her steps faltered as she thought, once more, about Lorcan Greene. Since his advent into her life four days ago, he'd become a permanent fixture in her mind.

Her Tutors and the Ruskin Master were all delighted to have him around, of course, of that there could be no doubt. And her fellow students, too, were avid in their attendance of his lectures. She'd never known a lecture be so well attended as the one he'd given in the
Drawing
Studio yesterday.

And she had been most fascinated of all. His subject was the trial of an art forger who'd tried to sell the Greene Gallery a fake. Lorcan had slides of both the original and fake, and Frederica was sure she wasn't the only one in the room who hadn't been able to tell them apart. Even the Tutors had looked uneasy. But it wasn't until Lorcan began to explain how he'd uncovered the fraud that the real genius of the man began to appear. Whereas before his aura of power and knowledge had been unmistakable, now it suddenly became overwhelming. Within minutes, it became clear to everyone that here was one of the great experts of Fine Art anywhere in the world.

Not that Frederica herself had required any additional proof. From the moment she'd set eyes on him, she'd known he was a man like no other. It embarrassed her now, as she thought back to their first meeting, the way she'd gaped at him like a moonstruck calf. It made her cringe to think how it must have amused him. For it was hopeless to think that a man as astute as he would not have noticed.

She pushed open the gate angrily and marched up the wallflower and forget-me-not strewn path, trying to thrust the thought of Lorcan Greene far away. But the damned man just wouldn't go. He lingered in the back of her mind, looking down at her, dressed in his expensive suit, his green gaze washing
knowingly
over her. Taking in every little sign of her infatuation. It was enough to make her want to spit.

Everyone was out, so she headed straight for the kettle, a cup of tea, and hopefully a return to sanity. As she made a drink, she told herself not to be so hard on herself. A man like Lorcan was bound to have women falling for him like ninepins. Besides, he'd probably never even given her a second thought.

During his lecture he'd been quite up-front and honest about why, as a businessman, he hated fakers. But he'd also spoken with sincere passion about the immorality of forging the works of other, greater, geniuses.

It had made Frederica feel absurdly guilty. Even now, she could remember standing at the back of the room, feeling as guilty as sin when his green eyes swept over her as he spoke. And yet, it was not as if he was looking at her particularly—although she felt her guilt must be written in large letters on her forehead. No, he'd seemed to be talking to the entire student body and watching each of them with sharp, all-seeing eyes, almost as if he was looking for something, some sign in particular.

She sighed as she drank the last of her tea, and sent up a silent ‘sorry' to Forbes-Wright, talented artist. She hoped, wherever he was, that he really didn't mind that she was going to copy his painting. Then she shook her head at herself. It was no good feeling guilty. She'd
made
up her mind to try painting a copy of ‘The Old Mill and Swans', so best get on with it.

And it was all Lorcan Greene's fault. She'd returned to Oxford determined to forget her father's outrageous plea, and if Lorcan Greene hadn't been there, sweeping her off her feet and being so damned arrogant and challenging, she wouldn't be here at Rainbow House now . . . about to raid the family attic for a 200-year-old canvas.

She climbed the stairs to the top floor, pausing to admire a Jackson Pollock on the landing, one of her father's few ‘lucky acquisitions', before forcing her feet onward and upward.

The attic at Rainbow House was probably unique in that all the accumulated ‘rubbish' was art-related, so it didn't take her long to find what she was looking for. She already knew that one of her ancestors, a particularly talentless lady called Ariadne Delacroix, had painted several truly awful paintings. With a tape-measure in hand, and hope in her heart, Frederica inspected the canvases for her ancestor's signature.

She coughed in the dust, and grumbled her father's name under her breath, but eventually found what she was looking for. What's more, one of Ariadne's efforts, dated around the same time as ‘The Old Mill', was exactly the same size as the Forbes-Wright original.
Although
she could have cut down a bigger canvas to size, of course, Frederica was determined to take no chances. She was going to do this thing properly. And an expert like Lorcan might be able to tell if a canvas had recently been made smaller. She hadn't read about Keating's meticulous attention to detail for nothing.

She lugged the painting downstairs and propped it up in the kitchen, careful to wash her dirty hands in the sink before giving the canvas a microscopic scrutiny. Canvases came in all sorts and types. There were the linen ones made from flax, that she favoured at the School. She would always degrease those, use a pumice stone on them, then add other layers of primer herself. Mounting and stretching was another time-consuming business too. Non-artists were always surprised by the amount of work that had to be done before an artist even picked up a paintbrush. But she wouldn't have to worry about any of that with this canvas, of course. It was perfect as it was: the right age, size, and type. It was just what Forbes-Wright would have used for his original painting of the Old Mill.

She'd have to be careful how she cleaned Ariadne's picture off, though. Not even a minute trace of it must be left. She quickly wrapped the canvas in an old sheet from under the stairs, and, not wanting to give her father the satisfaction of knowing what she'd done,
washed
up her cup and put it away, leaving no trace of her visit behind her.

She was by now used to lugging ungainly equipment about, so the journey back on the train presented her with no difficulties.

Once back in Oxford, she took the canvas straight to her workspace at the Ruskin, and paid another visit to the tiny library. Although she knew well enough how she herself would set about cleaning the canvas for repainting, what she really needed to know was how Forbes-Wright would have cleaned a canvas in his day. She wasn't sure if even Lorcan Greene would be able to tell whether or not modern chemicals had seeped into a canvas, but she was taking no chances.

Without quite knowing why, or how, it had become utterly important to her that she create a forgery that the great Lorcan Green could not detect. It was as if, on some primitive level, he'd challenged her so outrageously that she was determined to beat him, come what may. She was also uncomfortably aware, on some soul-deep level, that the challenge he'd issued had nothing to do with painting, and everything to do with the way her heart beat faster whenever he was around. But since there was nothing she could do about being attracted to him—all right, hopelessly, devastatingly attracted to him—there
was
something she could do about competing with him on his home ground . . .
art.
And, more specifically, the forging of art.

And so she spent the rest of the afternoon learning about how a Victorian would have set about preparing a canvas. And first thing the next morning, she began the task with vim and relish, humming softly beneath under her breath as she worked. There was something about helping her father out of a jam, and putting one over on the superior Lorcan Greene at the same time, that made her feel downright cheerful!

*          *          *

Lorcan awoke that morning pleasantly aware of the sunshine outside. It was Friday, and he was in Oxford.

As his friend Inspector Richard Braine had predicted, he'd found somewhere to lay his head—renting a spacious, two-storey house on Five Mile Drive, a cherry-tree-lined avenue in prestigious North Oxford.

He shaved and dressed in a pair of dark-cream slacks, a hand-tooled leather belt that an ex-girlfriend had brought him back from Spain and, in deference to the heat-haze building up outside, a dazzlingly white, cool silk shirt. He was the epitome of an elegant, classically good-looking Englishman about to enjoy a summer's day.

As he drove his faithful Aston Martin down the Banbury Road towards the centre of town,
he
fully intended to check out the Botanical Gardens. So when he found himself making his way to the Ruskin instead, he smiled ruefully, acknowledged his subconscious whim, and let himself into the cool hall. On the second floor he quickly realised that the School didn't really start to come alive until well after ten. It was now only nine-fifteen. Suddenly he heard a noise above him. It sounded as if someone had dropped something heavy. Vaguely curious, he sprinted lightly on up to the stairs and walked quietly across the paint-daubed floor.

A glimpse of curly, auburn hair, glowing like fire in a stray misty beam of sunlight, told him the identity of the student long before he reached her workspace, and he felt his footsteps faltering. Although he was loath to admit it, even to himself, he didn't really want to see or talk to Frederica Delacroix.

He tried telling himself that his reluctance was merely precautionary. A wise man's decision to distance himself from the temptation of forbidden fruit. But the simple fact was that Frederica had been haunting his dreams ever since their first meeting on Monday. Those freckles of hers had featured in many restless nights' twisting and turning.

So, reluctantly, and yet with a growing sense of pleasure that he couldn't deny was both dangerous and enjoyable, he found himself, once more, walking silently up behind her,
watching
her work. He felt a bit like a teenager with a crush, getting an unexpected and forbidden glimpse of the object of his desire. Ridiculous. But heady.

She was dressed in the ubiquitous dirty smock, and her hands were filthy. Not surprising, when he realised what she was doing. Cleaning a canvas. Even half-erased, the disappearing painting had obviously been hideous and amateurish in the extreme. There was no way it could have been one of her own efforts. He stepped a bit closer, looking at the beetle in one corner. As ill-painted as it was, he could see that the artist had been influenced by a certain style.

He frowned. If he had to make a guess, he'd say the painting had been done by a Victorian trying to ape his or her betters.