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Their hands were so close on the bar counter that they were almost touching and Tirza was aware of the warmth of his, spreading towards her own.

She decided to go on. ‘I have a knowledge of looms and weavers and spinners and dyers—now you can see why I began eavesdropping—and I also have a knowledge of modelling, which, by the way, does not place me in the role of a fool.’

‘Let me put it this way. Only a fool would go on talking to a stranger in a smoky ladies’ cocktail bar on the Eastern Boulevard ... don’t you think?’ His eyes were remarkable, she thought, of so deep a blue as to appear black at first sight.

There was a troubled set to her shoulders when she answered him. ‘That’s not very funny.’ Her voice was suddenly drained. ‘Personally, I’m beginning to find this very tiresome.’

‘I’m just being realistic. How are you getting home, by the way? Now that it seems very clear that he’s not coming back.’

‘What would you like to hear me say? That I’m going to hitch?’ She was wearing an elegant ribbed top, with silk trousers, and the result was one of provocative sophistication. An elaborate gold bracelet at her wrist, a gift from her father, hinted at money. The heritage bequeathed to her by her beautiful mother was always evident in the way she wore her clothes. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘your opinion of me is not important.’

They were silent, each assessing the other. For the moment Nigel Wright was completely forgotten.

‘I’m about to leave,’ those dark blue eyes continued to hold her gaze, ‘and it just happens that I’m a-passing thataway.’

‘Are you now?’ Her voice was very unfriendly. ‘And whataway would that be? It’s probably right out of your way.’

‘Then that’s a chance I’ll have to take, isn’t it? Along with the chance you’ll have to take, if you decide to come.’

A stubborn streak in her caused her to reply, ‘What chance would I be taking?’ Because she had no power of them, her green eyes went to his mouth and she was aware of a current of communication between them, razor-sharp and shocking, almost, in its vibrant message.

‘For one thing, the risk involved in accepting a lift from a complete stranger, even though we’ve broken the ice, as they say.’

‘Risks and danger are two things I take very lightly,’ she felt compelled to goad him. ‘Nevertheless, I have absolutely no intention of accepting a lift from you. I’m quite capable of fending for myself. I happen to be very independent, and it’s not just something to do with male chauvinism or Women’s Lib. I do hand it to you that men can do certain things better than women and I have no desire to dominate—but, and I want to make this quite clear, I can get around to handling my own transport home.’ Her tawny hair swirled round his face. ‘You’re not talking to a person of limited intelligence. Excuse me.’ She stood up and when she glanced at him she was quick to notice that she had ruffled him at last, and she enjoyed the little moment of triumph.

She was standing waiting for attention from the desk, when he came through to the foyer, and there was a haughty look about her and she looked dramatic and beautiful. Coming up to her, he said, ‘There are no risks involved.’ There was a degree of annoyance in his voice. ‘You can tell me where to go.’

Beside him, she was slim and excitingly long, although not very tall. Her narrowness was provoking, somehow, and one or two men glanced at her with interest. Men seemed to find her slim body disturbing and she had seen it in their faces from the time she was very young. The knowledge chilled rather than thrilled her.

There was a moment of stiff silence before she said, ‘All right. Thank you.’ She knew that, if she had to be honest with herself, she would prefer to go with him than to get into a taxi by herself.

His car was parked in the parking area and as they walked towards it, the wind caught at her hair and sent it flying across her face, so she turned, for a moment, into the wind, holding her face up so that her hair was swept back. Catching hold of it with one hand, she began walking again. Taking her arm, he guided her in the direction of his Alfa-Romeo and she waited for him to unlock the door for her, conscious of him all the while. With his dark tan, blue eyes and good looks, he would, she found herself thinking, invariably overcome
the
resistance of women of all ages. Against her will she had even been conscious of his aggressively masculine walk beside her. Also, he had the kind of face which would, whenever he felt so inclined, give nothing away. He brushed against her as he stood to one side for her to slide into the seat, and she found herself wondering whether this had been accidental.

The lights of the foreshore were winking and throbbing and glittering on the black water. Everything was vibrant and jewel-like with colour. In the far distance, a jet airliner had taken to the black space over the airport and she could see its light jump, jump, jumping. Her thoughts went to Nigel. Would he turn out to be just a mirage? Looking back briefly, she realised that he had always been very cagey and on edge when talking about himself. What a little fool she had been! All the time he had been dining, wining, dancing and swimming with her he had been cheating her.

The confined space of the car was invaded by the fragrance of her perfume and when her companion got in beside her he said, ‘Your perfume—I like it. By the way, my name is Hugo Harrington.’ When she remained silent he turned to look at her.

‘Tirza,’ she told him.

After a moment he said, ‘Where to, Tirza?’

‘Bishopscourt, please.’ She moved the heavy gold bracelet up and down her wrist.

When they were on their way she said, ‘You know, being a model, if only part-time, would appear to ban one from being a legitimate member of society, at times.’

‘Did I imply that?’ He turned to look at her.

‘No, but the tone of your voice suggested it.’

‘As it so happens my business relies heavily on the rag trade—and the modelling that goes along with it.’ He turned to look at her. ‘That surprises you, doesn’t it? As a matter of fact, it was for this reason I wondered whether we’d met before when I heard you talking to your boy-friend about being a model. I wasn’t eavesdropping for nothing.’ The tone of his voice was mocking.

‘As a matter of fact,’ asked Tirza, her curiosity getting the better of her, ‘what exactly
did
you hear?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.’

‘I was able to come to the conclusion that you resented the fact that many of those little intimacies you’d been sharing with him have been shared with his wife.’ His voice was casual, but she knew that he was waiting for her reply.

‘I see.’

‘I was also interested to hear that you model.’

‘I was aware of your scrutiny, of course.’ Her voice was cool. ‘You thought, because I was looking at
you
, I was trying to pick you up.’

‘Strong words, but I was amused by the possibility. I was going to offer you a job, actually.’ His voice was casual, but she was aware of being appraised by those blue eyes.

‘That was very generous of you.’ She did not try to hide the sarcasm.

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he went on, ‘it didn’t take me long to realise that what you were going through, sitting there beside me, was nothing short of an inner upheaval.’

‘I knew, when I went there tonight with him, that I was going to have to arrange my own transport home, as it so happened,’ she told him. ‘I went there to quarrel with him.’

‘And it just so happened that you preferred me to some taxi-driver. Right?’

‘Yes.’ Having made her point she was silent.

After a while he said, ‘Keep me informed as to the route.’

‘I was just going to tell you to turn left at the top of the hill. You’ll see the huge wrought-iron gates.’

The iron gates to her father’s white Cape-style mansion were closed and, before getting out to open them, Hugo Harrington let out a low whistle. ‘Papa has money,’ he said.

‘If he has, it’s something
I
never talk about,’ she replied very coolly, thinking of the isolation and loneliness which her father’s money had always managed to bring her. ‘Money is such a lonely word,’ she added.

‘Is it?’ He sounded genuinely amused. ‘But, in any case, it’s there. Right? like the skeleton in the stinkwood cupboard.’

There were lights in the house and at various points in the extensive grounds, but Tirza knew her father was out and that Mrs Meeker and the servants would be in bed.

There was tension building up in the car and she was aware of the woody fragrance of his aftershave lotion. With an upward tilt of her green eyes she said, ‘Would you like some coffee—or a drink, maybe? It’s up to you.’

‘I could use a cup of coffee. As a matter of fact, I haven’t been home yet. I went to the Holiday Inn with a business associate straight from my office.’

‘Well, fine.’ She felt flustered. She wondered whether he was testing her. ‘I make very good coffee, as it so happens.’ When she reached for the door catch he leaned over her and undid it for her.

The style of the house was of the Dutch architecture of Cape Town and its walls glimmered softly in the night. There were six gables, each with a graceful scroll pattern. Full-blown roses circled white columns in the garden and rosebuds unfurled their petals and their perfume mingled with hers.

At the big door Tirza fumbled in her bag for her key and when she found it Hugo Harrington took it from her. A stubborn streak in her prompted her to say, ‘No, there’s a knack. You won’t be able to manage it.’

When she dropped the key, they both reached down for it at the same time, and her tawny hair brushed his cheek as their fingers met. When they straightened up he put the key into the lock and unlocked the massive door without any effort at all. Their eyes met and she felt a rush of something like excitement, mingled with fright.

The wide hall had a white marble floor and, above it, an enormous chandelier of Baccarat crystal sent a glitter of colour in its direction. ‘This way,’ she said, leading the way into the vast drawing-room. Hugo Harrington was surprised and showed it, just as she had known he would. Everybody who ever came to the mansion was.

Here, there were no Cape heirlooms, no copper warming pans and kettles, no Delftware or oil paintings of ancestors staring down from gilt frames. Although Douglas Harper had inherited money from his father, to set him on the way, he had inherited nothing else. No family tree spread its branches to remind one of the part they had played in Cape history. His ancestors had been wanderers, taking root in foreign countries, only to tear them up again and move on. Douglas Harper was a self-made man, using his inheritance as the first stepping-stone.

So far as the architecture was concerned the style was Cape, but it ended there. The drawing-room was furnished with heavy-scaled sofas and chairs, upholstered in fantastic cream Portuguese carpeting. Her father had fallen in love with
the
Portuguese carpeting when they had been visiting Howard in Portugal. The huge area-carpet was the same and contrasted excitingly with the honey-gold beamed ceiling. Two palm-stump tables were used as pedestals for wine-storing jars of tin-glazed earthenware (majolica) Italian, Tuscany, late sixteenth century. In the deep window recesses there were more jars—Chinese wine-storing jars, which had been made in 1850, or thereabouts. The tremendous fireplace was white. Near one of the sofas a chunk of malachite rested on a white marble-topped table and the shade of green accentuated all that cream carpeting, as it had been intended it should do. White irises and giant lilies had been arranged in a vase by Tirza that morning.

‘Immense and theatrical, almost—this is no ordinary room,’ Hugo Harrington was saying. ‘It’s an exciting room, for an exciting slim girl with tawny hair the colour of the beams and green eyes the colour of that great hunk of malachite over there. The decor must have revolved around that girl from the beginning, surely?’

‘This is mood furniture,’ she told him. ‘My father is into it.’ She gave him a grin. ‘Here, in this house, there are no ancestral faces frowning down at one from heavy and ornate frames. Thank goodness for
that
small mercy, anyway.’ She heard the childish bitterness in her own voice. Often alone, the eyes of ancestors, trailing her about from ornate frames, would serve to make her nervous and jumpy, but she did not tell him this. Without thinking she went on, ‘The only hint at tradition is in my bedroom.’ She saw her mistake immediately and realised that he was still not sure of her, but she went on. ‘There are exquisite blue-and-white Delft tiles inside a rather lovely white fireplace. To do away with tradition, however, there’s a sunken marble bath, the size of a swimming-pool.’

‘What am I supposed to say, Tirza? That I’d like to see them some time?’ There was a cool expression in his eyes, although his tone was mocking. She was aware of his tallness and his tanned skin, which made those dark blue eyes seem even darker. He had a sensual mouth, but his chin was round and stubborn-looking.

‘What did you get out of saying that?’ she
asked
angrily. She felt herself begin to shake. There
were
two lamps burning and the light from them exploded the tiny gold flecks in her green eyes and the blue-upon-blue in his.

‘You have a lot to learn about men,’ he said.

‘It was a brutal remark,’ she replied angrily. ‘Please sit down while I get the coffee.’

They were drinking it when the cream and gold telephone in the hall began screaming to be picked up. She knew that Hugo Harrington was watching her as she went through to answer it.

‘Tirza?’ It was her father. ‘You at home, then?’

‘Yes. Can’t you hear I am?’ From where she was standing she could see Hugo Harrington pretending to examine the green chunk of malachite. She was very pale and she touched her face with the fingers of her free hand.

‘I’ll be with you in, say,’ she knew that her father was looking at his wrist watch, ‘say, just under an hour. Sorry I missed dinner—meeting finished late. They always do.’