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'From Henry. He wants to see you again.' His tone was light, a smile lurking behind the words. 'He told me to ask you to dinner.'

Her heart shook for all the absurdity of the words. 'When?'

'Tonight.'

She couldn't look at him. She didn't trust the glow that she suddenly knew would be in his grey eyes, melting her foolish heart and the very bones in her body. She didn't understand and scarcely believed the invitation that had come out of the blue. 'Where?' Her voice was low, doubtful. But she was wavering in her resolution to fight his fascination for her with all her might.

'At his house.' Mark paused. 'I can give you the directions.' A smile flickered briefly.

'I don't know.' Gillian hesitated. 'I don't think I ...'

'Please come,' he said quietly. 'Don't disappoint Henry. Or me.'

Gillian glanced at him then, uncertain. She was very tempted. There was something in his voice, in his eyes, that convinced her that he was not a man who was used to pleading for what he wanted. Either he took it or he walked away if it wasn't within easy reach, she felt. He was very proud. It couldn't be easy for a man like Mark Barlow to say
please
to a woman.

She was a fool but she desperately wanted that evening with the man she loved, so full of dangerous promise and offering no hope at all for the future. She was suddenly disinclined to question his motives. Perhaps he realised, just as she did, that it was their last chance to be in each other's arms. Tomorrow he would be engaged to Louise and she would have first claim on him. Gillian knew that she would never have any claim on him at all. But she loved him and she had to reach out for an hour of happiness, a glimpse of heaven, a brief and memorable magic.

She made up her mind abruptly. 'Tell Henry I'll be there,' she said in a rather flustered rush. She shut down the autoclave and hurried out of the clinical room like a very busy nurse without another moment to spare.

Later in the day, someone handed her a note, discreetly unsigned. It said simply:

Henry's expecting you for eight o'clock.

He lives at Croft House, Brookside.

For the rest of the day, Gillian puzzled over the invitation and wondered if she had been wise to accept it. What could Mark want from her except the one thing that she had always resolved never to surrender to any man until she married him? Why on earth was she rushing to burn her fingers at the flame of his too-blatant desire?

She didn't have to go, of course. Not turning up would probably cool his rather doubtful interest. He wouldn't care for being disappointed, thwarted.

Why was she going? Dressing carefully for the evening, Gillian asked herself the question—and couldn't find a convincing answer.

It would be madness to throw away her cherished virginity on a man who neither loved her nor wanted to marry her. She might regret it all her life. She didn't have the slightest doubt of the outcome if she spent the evening with a sensual man who stirred her own emotions so strongly. They would probably be alone in his house except for Henry—and she couldn't rely on the big black labrador to be an efficient chaperon, she thought dryly. He seemed to be actively encouraging matters if his master was to be believed!

She smiled at the whimsy. But it was out of character for someone like Mark and she wondered why he had resorted to it. He seemed so confident, so sure of where he was going and what he wanted in life. He could be direct to the point of rudeness. So it was strange that he had used the rapport which had leaped between his dog and herself that evening on the beach to persuade her into accepting an invitation.

But appealing to her sense of humour had worked, she thought dryly. Perhaps Mark had known that any other approach would result in failure. She hadn't felt kindly disposed towards him for days, she had been hurt and disappointed that he seemed able to pick her up and drop her as the fancy took him, convinced that it was only a sexually motivated fancy. But she had nothing against his dog ...

Driving to his house on the other side of the town, Gillian felt that she was looking her best and wished that her foolish heart would quieten and allow her to concentrate on the traffic and the unfamiliar road.

The blue dinner dress with its diaphanous sleeves and low neckline flattered the slender lines of her figure and complemented the blonde of her hair and fair skin, the blue of her eyes. She had coiled her hair into a smooth chignon and taken pains with her make-up, and dabbed just a little of a very expensive French perfume on her pulses. Perhaps she couldn't compete with the beautiful Louise Penistone but she could hope to see a gleam of admiration and a glow of wanting in the eyes of the man who was waiting for her that evening.

She drove through impressive lych-gates in the modest little Mini and parked it beside the sleek and snobbish Mercedes that stood in the drive. The house was bigger than she had expected, obviously the home of a wealthy and successful man. For a moment she sat in the car and gazed at it, trying not to think that it might not be long before he was sharing it with a wife. She couldn't help wondering if it had been bought with marriage in mind. It was surely much too big for one man and his dog!

Gillian was nervous, slightly apprehensive. But she had it all under control as Mark came out of the house to greet her. She smiled at him coolly.

'I've a date with your dog,' she said, very bright.

He was cool, too. 'He's in the house. I knew you wouldn't want to be swept off your feet By an exuberant welcome.'

His glance took in the elegant dress, the high-heeled evening shoes, the sophisticated hair style and the careful make-up. She had never looked lovelier. But she was distant, keeping him carefully at arms' length. Mark was very determined that she should melt before the evening grew old.

Gillian wondered what she had expected as she accompanied him into the house after that light exchange which had said nothing of his feelings or her own. He wasn't a man to say what he didn't feel or mean. He didn't lavish compliments. A girl had to rely on the way he looked rather than what he said.

She was impressed by his home. It was expensively and tastefully furnished. He had some excellent prints and some exquisite porcelain, a vast array of stereo and video equipment, a well-stocked bar. She wondered if he played the magnificent grand piano that stood in a corner of the drawing-room.

It was very much a man's domain, lacking the little touches that a woman might have provided. But Gillian liked ii. Mark's personality and strength of character and unexpected sensitivity had left a stamp on the room. Seeing him in the privacy of his home gave her a new insight into the man she loved. She suddenly realised how wrong it had been to be misled by his manner in the clinical surroundings of Greenvale or the antiseptic atmosphere of an operating theatre.

The black labrador was lying before the long window that opened on to a paved patio and a formal, well-kept garden. Nose on his paws, he was dozing in the last of the day's warmth. He looked up lazily, ears pricking very slightly, as they entered. After a few moments, he rose and padded across the room to Gillian and offered a polite paw, without enthusiasm. Gillian felt like an old and dear friend who could be relied on to understand when a dog just didn't feel like leaping up and barking a noisy welcome.

Used to dogs, she shook Henry's paw and pulled his ears and said all the right things. He grinned at her hugely and then went back to his rug and collapsed in a weary heap.

Gillian laughed.

Mark, busy with decanters, glanced at her with an appreciative twinkle in his eyes. 'He's worn out from hunting rabbits,' he explained. 'He came home filthy and exhausted after a day on the loose. He really isn't fit for decent company as a result. I shall have to banish him to the kitchen for the evening, I'm afraid.'

'So I won't have the pleasure of his company, after all,' Gillian said, very light.

He smiled. 'You'll have the pleasure of
my
company.' He brought drinks and placed them on a low table.

'What more could any girl want?' she returned dryly.

He sat down on the deep-cushioned sofa beside her and leaned back with a sigh of content. 'I'm glad we've finally found common ground for agreement,' he drawled. 'I've had enough of fighting, Gillian.'

She was disturbed by his smile with its potent magnetism, tilting her heart. She didn't like the way her senses stirred at his nearness. She didn't trust herself not to turn and melt against him in swift, all-consuming wanting.

She reached for her drink. It was just as she liked it. 'Is it just us?' she asked, a little too casually. 'I mean—is anyone else coming?'

'It's just us.' Stretching out a hand for his whisky, his hand brushed her arm. He sensed the swift recoil from the light and quite accidental touch. He hoped it was nervousness and not an instinctive revulsion. He was hoping for great things from that evening with the girl he had wanted almost since the first moment of meeting.

'I can't believe that Henry has so few friends,' Gillian said lightly, hoping he hadn't noticed that involuntary reaction to his touch.

He smiled. 'My housekeeper can always manage one more for dinner but she likes rather more notice for a party.' He glanced at his watch. 'She's an excellent cook but we had to take a chance with the menu. I don't know your tastes in food.'

'Oh, anything! I haven't any fads or fancies after five years of the nurses' dining-room at Kit's,' she returned, smiling back at him. 'You can imagine what those meals were like! Plain and wholesome and lots of stodge to keep us going through the day and heaven help our figures!'

'It seems to have done wonders for yours,' he told her with an appreciative gleam in his grey eyes.

Enchanting warmth stole into her small and very pretty face, catching at his heart. Very few girls still knew how to blush, he thought dryly. Gillian did it beautifully. He touched his hand to the soft, flushed cheek in a rippling caress and saw that there was a hint of shy response in the guarded blue eyes. His heart moved unexpectedly.

He leaned to kiss her lips, very gently, tentatively. His fingers trailed from the lovely face to the slender throat and to the delicious swelling of the small breasts at the neck of her frock. There he paused, fingers warm against her soft and very tempting flesh, waiting for the smallest sign of encouragement.

Quickened by his kiss, his touch, Gillian was afraid to give too much too soon. He couldn't know that she was a virgin. He seemed to think she would be an easy conquest. There seemed to be an unnerving confidence rather than query in the way that he put his hand to her breast, the way he kissed her. She was torn between the longing to give, born of loving, and the natural reluctance to be taken too lightly by an unloving man.

His touch burned her body. The slow tide of desire was stealing through her veins. Her arms ached to hold him and her heart was struggling to speak its feelings.

She sat very still, tense, too shy to speak or make the smallest move towards yielding. She wanted to give him anything, everything. She wanted him to respect the value of the gift.

'Don't cheapen me, Mark,' she blurted. It wasn't at all what she had meant to say and she knew instantly that it had been a mistake.

The smile fled from his eyes and his hand fell from her breast. He straightened, drank the whisky in his glass and rose to his feet for a refill.

Gillian saw the nerve jumping in his jaw. She saw the tightening of his mouth and the grimness of his expression. She saw the tension in his tall body. She swallowed nervously.

'I meant...don't rush me,' she amended, low, a little tremulous. She couldn't spell it out for him. Why didn't he know what she was trying to say? With all his experience, he ought to know that she trembled on the threshold of surrendering her most valuable asset, her virginity.

He looked at her steadily. 'It has to be now. Or never,' he said quietly. 'It's your last chance to make a fool of me, Gillian.'

Her eyes widened at the bitterness of the words. 'That's never been my intention!' she said quickly, defensively.

'I wonder.' Mark went to stand in front of the sofa, looking down at her with a challenge in his eyes. 'Do you know how many times you've slapped me down, knowing that I'd be back for more? Do you know how many times I've said to hell with you and gone on wanting you more than any woman I've ever known?' His voice shook with sudden passion. 'Damn it, Gillian! I want you. But I won't ask you again. Kiss me now and mean it—or go right now!'

Shaken to the core of her being by the strength of feeling that she had never suspected, Gillian rose and went into his arms. She kissed him, lips warm and sweet against his mouth, and felt the angry tension drain from him. She twined her fingers in the dark curls on the nape of his neck and allowed herself to yield to the tightening of his embrace .

'You never said ...' she whispered, the secret places of her body licked with the fierce flame of response to the passion in him.

'I said it a dozen times. You didn't want to listen.' He could feel the heavy beat of her heart, her quickened breathing. The scent of her hair and her lovely body aroused all his sensuality. Now that he could be sure of the outcome, he could take his time and coax her gently towards the final surrender. He kissed her, light but full of promise, and let her go as the dinner gong sounded softly in the hall.

Gillian didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed by the timely interruption. Things were happening too fast for her, she felt. The tide of desire was sweeping her into tempestuous and very dangerous waters. But without the impetus of his anger and her swift remorse, she might never have gone into his arms with a willingness that he probably assumed to be wanton.

Dinner was a very welcome breathing space, providing her With more insight into the man that she had loved before she really knew him. For he had arranged it to be intimate and much more romantic than she had expected of him.

There was candlelight and soft music and sparkling wine. There was a red rose, long-stemmed and thornless, the velvety petals still sparkling with evening dew from the garden, lying beside her plate in unmistakable compliment. There was Mark, so handsome in the formal black and white, so admiring and attentive and knowing just how to make a woman feel that she was something special in his life.