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Lorcan was about to make a discreet noise and advertise his presence, when suddenly he realised that she wasn't using a common stripping agent. In fact, she was using such an old-fashioned mixture that it was taking her much longer, and required much more elbow grease, than it should have done.

What the hell . . . ? Every suspicious cell in his body began to tingle. Why was a modern artist using such a laborious and old-fashioned way to remove paint? And why, if it came to that, was she removing it at all?

Frederica's movements gradually slowed. She'd been aware of a chill down the back of
her
neck for some time, but had been too busy to take any notice. Now she could feel a tightness in her breast that was making her nipples tingle. When, she thought desperately, but with a leap of unstoppable excitement and gladness, had she felt that before? With a sharp upward movement of her chin, she shot a rapid glance over her shoulder.

And speared him with her brown eyes.

Lorcan took a sharp breath, caught by surprise at the sudden confrontation with those velvety depths. ‘Hello again,' he said smoothly, and forced himself to smile.

Frederica licked lips gone suddenly dry. ‘Hello Mr Greene. I wanted to tell you how much I . . . er . . . I enjoyed your lecture the other day.'

‘Please, call me Lorcan,' he corrected her briskly. The ‘Mr Greene' had made him feel about a hundred-years-old. ‘And I'm glad I didn't bore you.' His eyes swept to the canvas again. Suddenly, he was sure that his lecture about art-forgery hadn't bored her at all. Far from if, in fact.

He felt an unaccountable sinking feeling deep inside him. He knew he should be elated. Richard had asked him to keep his eyes open for something unusual, especially amongst the students. And here he was, his excellent instincts screaming at him that he'd stumbled on to something, and all he could feel was . . . dismay.

‘Oh
no, it was really, really interesting,' Frederica said hastily, wishing she could stop herself from gushing. She must sound like a right ninny.

Lorcan nodded at the canvas. ‘Not one of yours, I trust?' he teased craftily.

Frederica laughed. ‘Oh no. No . . . er . . . a friend of mine had an aunt who hated it. Said I could have it . . . to re-use the canvas, I mean,' she stuttered, blushing, wishing a hole would open up and swallow her.

She's not a very good liar, Lorcan thought, with a mixture of savagery and relief. Savagery, because he hated being taken for a fool—especially by this woman. And relief because . . . well . . . because it showed that she wasn't an habitual liar. Which was something, at least. ‘I see,' he murmured. ‘But surely you're not so hard up that you have to scrounge old canvases?' he demanded, his disbelief obvious.

Frederica drew in a shaky breath. A nervous voice at the back of her head piped up with some sound, if obvious, advice. Don't panic! But he didn't believe her, she knew that. And as she looked at his openly mocking smile, she knew she had better do something to salvage the situation. And quick!

She tilted her head back and laughed. ‘Don't you believe it! We can't all be millionaires you know,' she said, with just a little bit of a snap. ‘Despite what impressions you might have formed, we only get a small
allowance
from the Ruskin. We get a materials bursary from our own college, too, but that hardly covers the cost of paint. Believe me, the chance of a canvas for nothing isn't something to be sniffed at.'

Now that, Lorcan acknowledged, had the unmistakable ring of truth about it. It was also a little too clever, a little too pat. He knew when he was being played with. And although he'd been dreaming of playing games with this beautiful young lady all night long, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind.

‘I see. Well, in that case let me contribute by taking you out to dinner tomorrow night,' he said smoothly, not missing the sudden mix of dismay and pleasure that flared in her dark, velvety eyes. ‘If you don't have to spend those precious pennies on anything as mundane as food, you can treat yourself to another tube or two of cadmium yellow.'

Although his voice was teasing, and his smile light, Frederica sensed the hidden gleam of a predator behind the facade. He definitely had the eyes of a tiger—all smoky-green, dangerous indolence.

A warning voice was screaming from the back of Frederica's mind, telling her to run. To head for cover. To say no. To make some excuse—any excuse, not to spend time alone with him. She had nothing to wear, for instance. She was washing her hair . . . anything. It was almost overwhelming—this
sense
she had of being way out of her league.

But another, even more persistent voice, told her not to be such a chicken. Men of the world were a danger all women had to face sometime or other. And shy virgins had better learn to sink or swim along with all the others.

‘Thank you, I'd love to,' she heard a voice say.

Her voice!

Lorcan smiled. ‘Great. I'll pick you up about seven then. Where?'

‘I'm at St Bede's. In the Woodstock Road.'

‘I'll find it,' he promised, gave her one last, long, thoughtful look, then was gone.

Frederica let her breath out in a whoosh. Wow! She leaned weakly against the wall. She supposed she should be flattered. Lorcan Greene had his pick of beautiful women. But he'd invited her out to dinner. A hitherto unheard, and really wild, voice began to stir inside her, wondering what it would actually be like to take Lorcan Greene as her lover. Her first lover. It would certainly be an experience.

But she quickly quashed that incredible thought. Prepared to do battle with Lorcan Greene when it came to the world of art, she might be. But take him on the intimate, personal battleground that was the bedroom? Forget it!

Frederica would have been even more panic-stricken if she'd realised that Lorcan, at that very moment, was heading for the admin
office,
determined to find out all he could about the background of one Frederica Delacroix. And he was bound to learn that she was hardly the poverty-stricken student she pretended to be—indeed, that the Delacroixes were renowned art collectors themselves. If he did discover everything about her Frederica would have reason to be flat-out terrified.

But she didn't know any of that.

And as for the predatory gleam that leapt into Lorcan's eyes as he contemplated his forthcoming date with Frederica Delacroix . . . ? Well, it would have been enough to make even the most seasoned of women think twice.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘You should let yourself go a bit more,' Reeve said, his voice rich with persuasion. He leaned across the table and reached for Annis's hand, rubbing his thumb caressingly over the tops of her knuckles. ‘A woman like you shouldn't be so stand-offish.'

Annis smiled softly. ‘Oh? I wasn't aware that I was.'

Reeve shrugged. ‘You shouldn't be so shy, then. Let yourself have some fun, for a change.' His voice dropped a suggestive octave. ‘You might like it.'

Annis laughed, a cool, silvery, tinkling laugh
that
carried well. ‘And what exactly did you have in mind? As if I couldn't guess.'

‘Now, now,' Reeve wagged a finger at her. ‘Don't go all prudish on me. You know what they say about all work and no play . . .' He lifted her hand, about to kiss it . . .

‘OK that's perfect,' Ray said, his bald head gleaming in the overhead lighting. The rest of the cast gave them a small ripple of applause. Annis quickly snatched her hand away and moved back from the trestle table. The unfurnished flat had now been fitted with rudimentary tables, chairs, and a few props. Rehearsals proper were well under way.

‘Of course, this scene takes place long before Reeve announces he knows who killed John,' Ray explained. ‘He's a bit of a Casanova. Reeve, you can flirt with some of the conference-going ladies to add authenticity to your character.'

‘That shouldn't be much of a hardship,' Annis muttered under her breath. But Reeve obviously had good hearing, for he shot her a sharp look from under his dark brows. His lips, though, couldn't help but twitch. Could she, by any stretch of the imagination, be jealous?

Ray gave them both a wary look. Never had he seen sexual tension shimmer so obviously between two people.

Reeve said something to Gerry, who laughed huskily, then whispered something to Julie, who blushed.

Annis
scowled. Older redheads and very-nearly-schoolgirls. The man certainly had a wide repertoire. Just as she was thinking this, Reeve swivelled round on the rickety chair and caught her in mid-scowl.

He grinned. Yep, no doubt about it. Miss Annis Whittington was positively green with jealousy. Annis didn't remove the scowl. She'd been fairly and squarely caught out, and in cases like this, attack was always the best form of defence. ‘Why are you grinning like a very bad impression of a Cheshire Cat?' she hissed at him. ‘I don't see that in the scene.'

Reeve allowed himself a small sigh and a shrug. ‘You really are uptight, aren't you?' he said loudly.

Annis started. ‘What? Who the hell . . . ?' She saw him tap the script knowingly, and blushed, realising what he'd done. It was a line from the scene they were rehearsing.

Annis's face suddenly softened. ‘It's not that, Reeve, precious,' she purred, reading her own lines with perfect timing, determined not to be outdone.

Ray nodded in approval. If nothing else, their personal feud would keep them distracted. Of them all, Ray had come to see Annis and Reeve as the most astute. If anyone realised that something odd was going on, it would be these two.

The cast worked solidly for an hour, then were given an hour and a half off for lunch. As
they
all trooped outside, Norman Rix glanced up the busy road. ‘There's a café just round the corner I know, serves great fish and chips. Cheap too. Who's up for it?' Naturally, everyone was.

Annis felt a hand curl around her arm, and stopped dead in the middle of the street. She tilted her head sharply, knowing full well who it was who had hold of her. Nobody else would ever dare manhandle her except Reeve Morgan.

‘Don't tell me you're not on a permanent diet,' he drawled, watching her flashing eyes warily. ‘My flat's just a bus ride away. I've got some fresh crayfish and salad on offer.'

Annis's eyes narrowed. ‘After what happened the other night, what on earth makes you think I want to go back to your flat?' she snapped.

Reeve smiled grimly. ‘What's the matter? Lost your nerve?'

Annis's eyes narrowed. The orange flecks shone like little embers of temper. ‘Don't flatter yourself! Better men than you have tried to make me nervous. And failed.'

‘So, you prefer greasy fish and fattening chips to fresh crayfish?' he mocked. The sun was bathing his dark curls with a golden lining, and something about the way he stood there made her feel suddenly weak at the knees. Annis felt herself breathing hard, perched on the edge of rage and desire. What was it about
this
man that could tie her up in knots? It couldn't be his looks alone. Annis had met men whose good looks could peel the paper off the walls. And she could hardly accuse him of using excess amounts of charm on her! So what . . .

‘Look, don't bust a gasket,' Reeve said drolly. ‘If you don't want to eat, you don't . . .'

‘Oh all right!' Annis sighed, then broke out into a sprint as they saw a double-decker pull in, and Reeve shouted that that was their bus. They just made it, and lurched their way on to one of the downstairs seats.

‘Good grief, I'm out of shape,' Annis panted. ‘I'd better start doing dance classes again.' Reeve, she noticed wryly, was breathing normally. The sight of his calm, unruffled composure, when she knew her own face must be pink with exertion, did nothing much to improve her temper. Nor did his flat. It was in a leafy little cul-de-sac with a pleasant view over a group of horse chestnut trees, and a pocket-handkerchief-sized park. It had all the hallmarks of being professionally decorated, and she thought with a pang of her own tiny bedsit.

She sighed and followed him into his kitchen, decorated in pale lemon and powder blue. She watched him walk to the fridge that was as tall as he was and extract crayfish, already marinating in a glass dish and ready to eat. His hands were deft and knowing as he
assembled
different lettuces and mixed a vinegar-and-lemon dressing. Next, he chopped cold bacon, cress, watercress and walnuts into a basin, adding neatly-cut tomatoes and cucumber before carrying it to the table.

By the time he'd warmed crusty rolls in the oven, set the table, and opened a bottle of expensive-looking white wine, her stomach was rumbling, and she was forced to admit, albeit grudgingly, that he was at least domesticated. Some men couldn't look after themselves if their lives depended on it, her ex-husband having been just such a man. But she couldn't imagine Reeve Morgan going about in a dirty shirt because he didn't have a little woman waiting at home to do his laundry. No—he'd just go out and hire a housekeeper. A pretty one, too, no doubt.

She sat down, reaching for one of the stiff, green linen napkins Reeve had put out. She accepted her glass of wine and took a tentative sip. Properly cooled, dry, tangy and delicious. She thought of the others, drinking lukewarm café tea, and felt a tiny tinge of guilt.

‘To the murder mystery weekend,' Reeve said, raising his glass. Annis clinked her own glass to his.

‘May nobody guess whodunit.'

‘You would hope that,' Reeve teased. ‘You being the killer!'

Annis couldn't help but smile. ‘You know, sometimes you can be . . . all right,' she said,
grudgingly.

Reeve shot a stunned look at her, then burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. She looked so disgruntled. In his mirth, he nearly choked on his wine. Finally, eyes streaming, he managed to shake his head. ‘I'll bet that was positively painful!'