'Everything seems to be in order.'

Watching the dark head of his latest client bend over the document he was signing, Philip Sterne reflected that it was rare indeed in his long legal experience to meet an entrepeneur who managed to combine decisiveness with intelligence in such equal measures. But then that was no doubt the secret of Jay Brentford's meteoric rise into the higher echelons of business success.

From the time he had taken over his first company less than ten years ago, he had seldom been out of the financial press. This latest acquisition—the purchase of a small, rather rundown construction company based in a sleepy Cotswold village—might seem rather out of keeping at first sight, but Philip prided himself on his own business acumen, and could quite easily see why a man with the resources that Jay Brentford had at his command could want to add a small, old-established but failing local firm to his assets, especially if he was hoping to tender for the proposed new motorway that was going to be built locally.

Philip watched as he signed his name, quickly, and efficiently with no evidence of any flourish. A hard man, or so he had read, and he certainly looked the part; the tall, lean body cloaked in its formal dark business suit held more than a faint suggestion of whiplash strength, and Philip guessed that the cool grey eyes could chill with demoralising speed if their owner ever happened to be faced with something or someone who did not match his exacting standards. How old was he? Mid-to late thirties?

The sound of his new client's voice, faintly harsh and abrasive dragged him out of his mental reverie.

'Somewhere to stay?'

'Yes, a good hotel. I shall need a room for a couple of weeks. There are still some business ends I want to tie up.'

Philip frowned. 'I'm afraid Little Camwater has only one hotel—The Bells—and I know it's fully booked up,' he told him regretfully. 'Your best bet would probably be Gloucester, or failing that, perhaps one of the tourist hotels in one of the other villages.'

'Tourist hotels?' Jay shook his head, frowning slightly. The sort of hotel the solicitor was describing would no doubt be full ofjust the sort of people he didn't want to meet right now.

Taking over Camwater Construction had been an impulse decision, and one which the remainder of his main board still did not entirely approve of, even though in the end reluctantly they had backed him. They could not see why they could not tender for the

motorway contract without taking over another company specifically to do so. After all, their existing companies had all the facilities they would need, and if their tender were to be successful they would need all the capital they had just to ensure their line of supplies. However, Jay had overruled them, pointing out that the government both at London and local level would look more favourably on a tender with local connections, with at least some interest in the area in which they were to work. His mouth compressed as he dwelt on the problems ahead of him if they were successful in their tender. The construction of new motorways was always something that aroused intense local feeling. This particular one had been carefully planned so as not to despoil the beautiful countryside through which it would run. Nevertheless, there had already been considerable opposition.

Pushing aside the sensation of bleak tiredness seeping into his bones, he dragged his thoughts away from the problems ahead of him and instead tried to concentrate on the more immediate one of finding somewhere to stay. If he couldn't find a hotel he would have to use the house—something he had no particular desire to do, because then he would need to find staff. Grimacing faintly, he wondered if Laine had not after all been right, and if he should not have taken a break after that last gruelling contract in the Middle East before driving down here.

Laine ... His mouth curled faintly. He knew quite well what she was angling for, but marriage wasn't among his plans for the future. Not now— perhaps not ever—and certainly not to a woman like Laine, who he knew quite well had other lovers beside himself. 'No hotel. Damn!' He was only aware of having spoken out loud when he heard Philip murmuring, half-apologetically, 'Well there is somewhere—not an hotel—but an excellent boarding house, run by another of my clients as it happens.' Philip saw the dark, raised eyebrows, and despite his fifty-odd years flushed beneath the implied cynicism of it.

'Touting for business for them? Is that part of your service?'

'Not at all.'

Noting the stiff disapproval in the solicitor's voice Jay wished the sarcastic words unsaid. The trouble was he was far too much on edge and had been for weeks. That Middle Eastern contract, while highly remunerative, had been a real s.o.b. Everything that could have gone wrong had done so, and in the end he had had to spend eight weeks out there which he had not been able to spare, just to ensure that the contract was completed without invoking any of the penalty clauses. Dealing with his principals had involved walking on eggshells, something he wasn't used to doing, and it had left him on edge and exhausted. He apologised briefly, watching the relief seep up under Philip's embarrassed reserve.

'A boarding house, you say?' He grimaced faintly, 'Well, if there's nothing better.' He was visualising the type of boarding house he well remembered from his

teens; the days when he himself had worked in the construction industry, as a labourer. God, those had been hard times, but the money had been good and he had managed to save enough to start up his own small business. Enough to offer Jenny marriage. He had also been young and foolish enough to believe that she loved him as much as he loved her. He had soon learned better. Even now he could remember, in exact detail, the night she had told him that their engagement was off; that she was going to marry her father's business partner. She had avoided his eyes as she handed him back his ring, and even now he could still taste the bitterness of gall and helpless, hopeless pain as it rose up in his throat.

Oh, he had argued with her, pleaded with her not to go through with it, pointing out that James Oliver was twenty years her senior, but she had made up her mind. She could not envisage for herself the sort of life she would have as his wife, following him from construction site to site, often living in a beat-up old caravan, while he ploughed every bit of profit he made back into his struggling business. To her, he saw then, the dream, which seemed so bright and gleaming to him, was no more than a tinsel image, and one she shrank from, preferring the security and order of her father's already established world.

In the end he had had to leave her. Then twenty-four, he had thought she had broken his heart, but now he knew better. Hearts did not break, they merely hardened.

'If you like I can ring up and see if Vicky has a vacancy?' Philip was saying. 'She should do at this time of the year. Things are normally quite quiet. Camwater isn't on the main tourist track, and it's usually high summer before Vicky gets fully booked up. People come year after year to stay with her, once they've discovered her,' he continued, a rare smile illuminating his face. 'It's marvellous, how she's managed to keep that place going. When Henry died I advised her to sell it, but she wouldn't. She insisted that she had to keep it for Charles—her stepson,' he explained to Jay, shaking his head slightly. 'I never thought she'd manage it. The Old Vicarage is a lovely building, no doubt about that, but to maintain and run it— and to bring up Charles and the twins . . .' He broke off as though sensing his client's boredom with the subject, and reached for his telephone.

'Get me Mrs Moreton at the Old Vicarage will you please, Madge?' he asked his secretary.

Whilst he was waiting, Jay strode over to the window and stood looking out of it down into the small square below. Philip Sterne's offices were on the second floor of a small row of late Georgian terraced houses. Opposite from them was a tangle of Tudor buildings, and the square itself still retained its ancient cobbles. Today was market day but Jay stared down at the melee of people surging round the wooden stalls without really seeing them. He himself had been brought up in the North, in a small cotton mill town that ran like a narrow ribbon in the valley between brooding Pennine hills. When he was eighteen he had discovered that the parents who had brought him up were in reality his aunt and uncle, and that his mother had been his aunt's younger sister, who

had 'got herself into trouble' in Manchester with a seaman who had left the area long before his mother had known she was carrying his child.

No one had ever been actively unkind to him, but somehow the discovery that he was not really the son of his foster parents had enabled him to tear himself free of the valley, which had always in some undefinable way stifled him. He had hated not being able to see over the hills ... the sensation of being closed in ... shut off from the mainstream of life. His aunt and uncle had not been entirely sorry to see him go. He had been a responsibility they had willingly shouldered, perceiving it their duty to do so, but he had never truly been one of them. There had always been an element of the cuckoo in the nest about him. For instance, he had been the only one in the family to get a pass to the local grammar school, and his obvious intelligence had always somehow set him apart from his brother and sisters. He still kept in touch with them, but they like him preferred a distant relationship to a closer one. They found it easier to deal with his success when they viewed him as a cousin ... somehow apart from the family instead of being part of it. He was godfather to his eldest cousin's son and religiously remembered to send a gift of money to the boy every birthday and Christmas.

'Vicky?' He heard Philip Sterne laugh and reflected cynically that the as yet unseen Vicky obviously knew quite well how to get round the old boy, if the amused sound of his laughter was anything to go by.

'Do you have an empty room at the moment? You do? Excellent. I have a client in need of somewhere to stay for a fortnight.' There was a brief pause, and then Jay heard Philip saying in a pleased tone. 'Yes, I think he'd appreciate that. I'll give him directions to you ... Yes, very well, thank-you, and how are all of you?' More laughter before the receiver was replaced, and Jay wasn't aware that he was frowning until he heard Philip saying rather mildly. 'Vicky is my goddaughter, Mr Brentford.' He smiled briefly and then added in a more formal tone. 'She does have a room free, and in fact suggested that, since you might like to have your own sitting room as well, she would give you the small self-contained suite that Henry had made for his late mother. That way you will have a certain amount of privacy in which to conduct your work, although of course, Vicky will provide all your meals.'

That way also no doubt 'Vicky' could charge him a good deal more than she would for a mere single room, was Jay's cynical thought, but he allowed nothing of his feeling to show in his expression, guessing that if he did so, Philip Sterne would immediately leap to the defence of his precious goddaughter.

'How far from Camwater is this place?' he asked instead, aware of a certain brusqueness in his voice, but unable to do anything about it.

'Oh, less than five miles.'

He listened as Philip gave him directions and then glanced briefly at his watch. Just gone three o'clock. Too late to bother about lunch. He might as well go direct to this

Old Vicarage place and dump his case. He would have to ring London and confirm that he had signed the contract, and he would also have to ring Laine.

It was half-past three before he manoeuvred the long bonnet of his steel-grey BMW out of the narrow confines of the small market town heading in the direction Philip Sterne had instructed him to take.

The early December afternoon was already turning to dusk, a faint haw of frost whitening the hedgerows. Jay noticed it without much pleasure, reflecting on what a hard winter would do to his contract schedules, especially those relating to work they were doing in the North of Scotland for one of the larger oil companies. The road forked and he slowed down slightly even though he had the right of way, cursing as almost out of nowhere a boy on a bicycle shot out of the side road right in front of his car. The fact that he chose to swerve rather than brake was an instinctive judgment made by the same inner consciousness which had already noticed the drop in temperature and the frosting hedgerows. One of them loomed up ahead of him now, etched sharply in black and white, wicked thorns, scraping hideously against the front wing of his car. He felt the lurch as the front wheel hit the ditch and wrenched hard on the wheel, fighting to keep the car on the road and bring it to a standstill.

'I say, I'm most dreadfully sorry ...'

The sudden intrusion of the youthful male voice into the thick silence of the car brought him out of his stunned realisation of how narrowly he had avoided mowing down the cyclist, and with the realisation came a fierce reactionary wave of anger.

He turned to the passenger door and leaned across to the partially open window, his eyes the biting cold of the arctic seas that Philip Sterne had so accurately visualised they could be as he gritted, 'Just what the hell do you think you were doing? Did no one ever teach you any road sense? Don't you know what a giveway sign means, damn you?'

Hazel eyes held the bleak anger of his own with steady regard, a faint tinge of colour suddenly driven out of the boyish face as it turned ominously pale. Cursing, Jay thrust open his door and strode round to the passenger side. The boy had dismounted from his bike and was leaning over it, straight tow-coloured hair hiding his expression.

'Take it easy. Come on ...' Jay opened the passenger door and half pushed the boy into it. Tall and thin he looked about fourteen. He was wearing school uniform and Jay guessed he was on his way home. His bike was well maintained and illuminated, old but well looked after, and as he ran idle fingers over the paintwork Jay was suddenly transported backwards in time. God, how he remembered his own first proper bike. It had been his pride and joy. He too, had used it for school. He grimaced faintly, remembering the forbidden joy of riding it behind a heavy lorry, using the tail draught. The anger drained out of him, to be replaced by a weary lethargy.

Stooping he picked up the bike and strode round to the back of the car.

His actions alerted the boy and he struggled to get out of the car, his face ashen with shock and reaction. 'Hey ...' his voice was husky, probably just on the point of breaking into manhood, Jay guessed.

'It's okay,' he responded laconically. 'I'm not about to throw it into the ditch and you after it, although it would be no more than you deserve. Hasn't your father ever warned you not to race out at a junction like that without stopping to look?'

'My father's dead.'

He said it reluctantly, and Jay quashed the brief feeling of guilt that stabbed at him.

'Your mother then,' he amended curtly, 'or whoever the hell is in charge of you. Where do you live, I'll give you a lift back there?'

'There's no need, I can walk.' Once again the boy was making to get out of the car and Jay swore abruptly, suddenly realising how weary and tired he was himself. 'Don't be so damned stupid,' he demanded angrily. 'You're far too shocked to be walking anywhere, and besides, I wouldn't trust you not to get back on that damned bike and attempt to give some other unfortunate driver a heart attack.'

In the thin light he saw a reluctant grin touch the boy's mouth and his muscles relaxed slightly. What could have been a fatal accident had been averted: the shock of what had happened had no doubt taught the boy a lesson he would long remember if his white face was anything to go by, and he was too tired himself to spend any further time lecturing him; he would leave that task to the boy's mother.

'Where do you live?' he asked, fitting the bike into the BMW's roomy boot and closing the lid. 'I'm making for a place called the Old Vicarage.'

The quality of the boy's silence made his eyes narrow in a thoughtful study of the youthful face as he got back into the car. 'Come on,' he demanded curtly, 'tell me where you live.'