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‘I suppose that’s as good a compromise as I can hope for from a bull-headed male,’ she muttered, filling two fresh ice bags for his wrist and using the oversized rubber bands to hold them in place once again.

‘Bull-headed?’ he grumbled. ‘If I’d known I was going to get no sympathy here I would never have agreed to stay. At least my secretary would have had a kind word for me.’

Suddenly worried that he might change his mind, Sara tenderly touched his slightly swollen skin. Tm sorry you were hurt, and I apologise for calling you bull-headed.’

‘You do know how to get your way, don’t you?’ he murmured, his expression darkening as he turned away, breaking the contact.

With his back towards her, he poured himself a cup of coffee while Sara stood for a long moment staring self-consciously at her hand. Then with a rigid posture, she forced herself back into motion and finished putting the breakfast on the table. Obviously Brad did not want her to touch him. She would be certain not to make the same mistake twice.

At precisely eight, the cleaning service crew arrived, and Brad introduced Sara as his temporary housekeeper and artist in residence.

‘You Yankees have a marked sense of humour,’ the head of the crew, a woman named Kate, laughed good-naturedly. ‘And I’ve always suspected there was a bit of the Irish in you, Mr Garwood—a large bit!’

Sara’s mouth tightened as she held on to her reserved composure. The ‘artist in residence’ crack had apparently been made to explain her less than housekeeperish attire. However, from the expressions on the faces of the crew, it was obvious that the word ‘artist’ had conjured up the Bohemian stereotype, leaving no doubt in their minds that her true position was that of Brad Garwood’s mistress.

And, as it turned out, the smartly dressed, uniformed cleaning service people were only the beginning. While they were still in the house, a policeman came to ask Brad more questions concerning the accident. This time he introduced Sara only as his housekeeper. The policeman took one look at her trim figure housed in faded denims and a tee-shirt and his eyes told Sara that he didn’t believe the housekeeper story either.

Retreating to her studio, she tried to push the sidelong glances out of her mind, with only limited success. Each time she was forced out of her seclusion to change Brad’s ice packs, she encountered at least one member of the crew, and then there was the policeman watching her every move. By eleven-thirty when the house crew had finished and Kate sought her out for an inspection tour of the work done, her nerves were taut as a bowstring. Briefly, Sara allowed herself to believe that Kate had sought her out for a complete inspection because after seeing that she had her own bedroom, the woman had decided to believe that she actually was the housekeeper. However, as they moved from room to room, Kate’s less than subtle probing let Sara know that she was only after more details of the arrangement.

Feigning ignorance, Sara made only comments pertaining to the work the crew had done and managed to get them out of the house before totally losing her temper.

Hearing brad bringing the policeman down to show him out, she ducked into the kitchen. One more knowing look from a stranger and she wasn’t certain if she could control herself!

‘You’re muttering to yourself again,’ Brad commented drily, entering the kitchen as she was finishing preparing his sandwich.

‘It’s this double standard society we live in,’ she hissed. ‘For a man to have a mistress, it’s a boost to his reputation; for a woman to be one, it’s a black mark on her name.'

'Are we talking about anyone in particular?’ he questioned innocently.

‘You know perfectly well what I’m talking about,’ she glared. ‘Kate and her crew, and even the policeman, are all certain that I’m your mistress.’

‘Yes, I did get that impression,’ he admitted, much in the manner of an adult who was witnessing a child learning one of life’s lesson the hard way. ‘Maybe it was the jeans. They do fit a bit snugly. And that tee-shirt... I never realised a tee-shirt could be so ... definitive.’

‘You may find this amusing,’ she snapped, losing her temper completely, ‘but I find it very difficult being seen as a scarlet woman!’

‘I suppose there’s the possibility that I’ll have to marry you to save you from the gossipmongers,’ Brad mused, leaning against the counter, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Her chin came up defiantly as she used her anger to hide the sharp jab of pain his mockingly delivered solution had produced. ‘Besides, people expect artists to have lovers. You certainly jumped to that conclusion.’

‘I thought your reputation was important to you,’ he challenged, straightening away from the counter, his one good hand hooked into his pants pocket as he stood towering over her.

‘I’m sure I can live down one off-colour episode,’ Sara faced him haughtily.

‘First you find me ridiculous and now I’m an off-colour episode,’ he glowered, green fire flashing in his eyes. ‘There are moments, woman ...’

As he spoke, he crossed the distance between them. Suddenly a steel band circled Sara and she found herself pulled hard against his solid form.

Her lips were parted in the beginning of a protest when his mouth found hers, giving the contact an immediate sense of intimacy. Her senses reeled as liquid fire surged through her veins, then sanity was lost in a whirlwind of emotion.

She was so very intensely aware of the feel of him. Even his injured hand, which rested lightly on her hip, seemed to burn its imprint into her.

Responding to the increasingly sensual demand of his kiss, she strained against his virile male frame, her hands caressing the expanse of his chest before moving over his shoulders.

Brad flinched as she found a spot left tender by the accident, and the sharp memory of his earlier rejection impinged harshly into her world of mindless sensations. As a semblance of sanity fought its way to the surface, she began to struggle.

Almost immediately she pushed against another still tender bruise. Unable to bring herself to consciously hurt him, she dropped her hands to her sides and stood rigid in his embrace.

‘Damn!’ he muttered under his breath, drawing away from her and releasing her so suddenly, she had to catch the table to steady herself.

Her lips tightened into a hard straight line to keep her chin from trembling as she watched him stride out of the room without a backward glance. ‘The male ego is certainly a fragile thing,’ she muttered bitterly, while attempting to erase the taste of his mouth from her lips with the back of her hand. It didn’t work. The feel of him, from the taut hard thigh muscles pressed against her softer contours to the hot demanding pressure of his mouth, lingered.

‘He really would have been shocked if I’d accepted his joking suggestion of marriage as a solution,’ she continued her one-sided conversation, curving her mouth into what was supposed to be a cynical smile but which missed the mark and instead gave her a wistfully forlorn appearance as angry tears filled her eyes. Blinking them back, she refused to let her irrational response to the man dominate her reason.

Carrying his sandwich along with a drink into the dining room, she found Brad standing, staring out the window, his back turned towards her. He did not acknowledge her presence and she did not speak to him. Staying only long enough to place the food on the table, she made a hasty retreat.

Back in the kitchen, she tried to eat, but her sandwich caught in her throat and she tossed it into the waste bin after only a couple of bites.

Later, climbing the stairs to her studio, she chided herself for letting the man unhinge her. What he did or thought was of no consequence to her. ‘It shouldn’t be, anyway,’ she muttered, uncovering the clay head and staring at the rough countenance.

In an uncontrolled movement, her fingers traced the line of the jaw. Her touch resembled more of a caress than an artistic moulding, and once again her mother’s words returned to haunt her. ‘I can’t possibly be in love with the man. He’s difficult and arrogant,’ she mumbled, then was forced to amend this harsh judgment as she recalled Brad’s easy manner with the children and the instances when he had admitted to being less than perfect. Still, she had only known him for a few days. In spite of her recent erratic behaviour she was normally a quiet, rational, thoughtful person. She firmly believed that before two people could be truly in love they had to spend time together; see if their interests were compatible; find out if their temperaments were complementary. A person didn’t fall in love with a man just because he had green eyes that could flash fire or soothed like velvet or because his touch evoked certain erotic responses.

She was still denying any emotional involvement when the doorbell rang in the middle of the afternoon. Forgetting to remove her smock, she opened the door in a slightly breathless condition from her run down three flights of stairs to find herself face to face with Marc and Monica Fallon.

Marc was the first to recover. ‘We heard about the accident and came over to see how Brad’s getting along,’ he said, his eyes bright with amusement.

‘But if he’s busy, we don’t want to disturb him.’ Monica’s expression was schooled into one of stiff politeness.

‘Please come in,’ Sara requested, forcing an indifference into her voice and a formal smile on her face as she self-consciously smoothed the paint-smeared smock she wore.

'I really don’t think we can stay,’ Monica balked.

‘Of course we can,’ said Marc, taking his sister’s arm and guiding her up the stairs behind Sara, who found the gleam in the man’s eyes disconcerting. Although Monica Fallon was throwing her periodic glances, she felt pretty certain that the woman had not recognised her. Marc, on the other hand, had obviously placed her immediately.

‘Who may I say is calling?’ she asked after ushering them into the living room on the second floor.

‘Monica and Marc Fallon,’ Marc responded pleasantly, apparently willing to play the game; at least, for now.

Excusing herself to announce their presence, Sara paused outside the partly closed door for a moment to stop the shaking which had suddenly come over her. From inside she heard Monica ask her brother in a refined, hushed whisper, ‘Who do you think she is?’

‘Probably a house painter,’ he replied, his voice at a natural level as he made no effort to match his sister’s discreet behaviour. ‘With Women’s Lib, one never knows where a female will turn up next or what role she’ll be playing.’

Running a hand through her hair, Sara turned towards the stairs, only to almost collide with Brad. ‘The Fallons are in the living room,’ she managed in calm tones.

‘So I heard,’ he frowned. ‘Please prepare some coffee for Marc and myself. Monica will take tea.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sara was past him and down the steps before he entered the room where his guests waited. After turning the water on to boil and starting a fresh pot of coffee, she went into her room to run a brush through her hair. Seeing herself in the mirror, dressed in her jeans, tee-shirt, and Steve’s oversized, paint-smeared shirt acting as a smock, she cringed. Compared to Monica Fallon, who sat poised gracefully on the antique Victorian sofa upstairs in her tailored Paris suit with its slit skirt and lace blouse, Sara felt like a beggar’s daughter. She considered changing, but stopped herself. ‘I’m not in competition with Monica Fallon,’ she stated emphatically to the dubious image in the mirror. She did, however, exchange the smock for a pinafore-style apron which covered her tee-shirt and half of her jeans before carrying the refreshments upstairs.

‘I know it’s none of my business, because once you own the property, you have the right to do with it what you wish,’ Monica was saying as Sara walked into the living room. ‘But I’m curious to know what you plan for Cyprus Point. Are you going to tear down the house and build another of your “communities”?’ In spite of the woman’s attempt to hide her feelings, there was a hint of sadness in her voice as she spoke of this prospect.

‘You have every right to ask,’ Brad assured her. ‘Cyprus Point has been in your family for centuries. The answer is no, I do not plan to tear down the house nor to cut up the remaining land. The architectural design of the building is far too valuable to be destroyed, not to mention the history surrounding the place. I plan to renovate it, keeping as much of the original structure as possible, and then move into it as my personal residence.’

‘I’m so glad!’ Monica smiled up at him, relief written on her features. ‘It’s a wonderful place to raise a family. I recall my childhood there with intense delight.’

Brad returned Monica’s smile and Sara’s knuckles whitened on the handles of the tray she was carrying.

‘Everyone to their own poison,’ Marc muttered. Then in stronger tones, almost in the same style as that of a ham actor who has decided that it is time for him to take centre stage, he said, ‘Actually, Father was furious when he heard about the accident. He’s afraid old Hanna’s curse is going to prevent him from ever selling the place.’

‘Marc, really!’ Monica flushed.

‘I didn’t know there was actually a curse,’ said Brad, showing interest but no concern.

‘Oh, yes. Father swore us to secrecy, but since there’ve been two deaths already and now you’ve had a very close call, I suppose there’s no harm in telling,’ Marc mused. It was obvious from his manner and voice that he was enjoying this little game.

‘Marc, I really don’t think Brad is interested in a dying woman’s ravings,’ Monica attempted to stop him.

‘Of course he is,’ Marc assured her with an indulgent brotherly air. ‘He’s buying or, at least, trying to buy Hanna’s sacred little kingdom.’

Setting the laden tray down on the coffee table, Sara glanced up in time to catch the warning in the man’s eyes as he looked towards Brad, and a spasm of fear shook her.

‘Actually we should have recorded it on film,’ he continued, a hint of sarcasm entering his voice. ‘It could have been the opening of one of those horrible gothic murder mysteries. There was old Hanna on her deathbed with the family dutifully though grudgingly gathered around. I remember her eyes were closed and I thought she was already dead, when suddenly they opened and there was that fierceness in them that had always cowed me as a child. She stared straight at my father. “I know you’re going to try to get rid of Cyprus Point the moment I’m dead,’ she said, ‘but I warn you. No one but a person of Halloway ancestry will ever live here. It was Halloway sweat that cleared this land and Halloway blood that was shed in two wars to keep it. When my family lost their fortune and were forced to sell this home, I forsook the man I loved and married your father instead to ensure that Halloway blood would always flow through the veins of those who dwelt here. You will not thwart me. I cannot bring myself to place a curse on anyone of my own flesh, but I do curse any outsider who would attempt to make Cyprus Point his home”.’ Marc’s voice had become a high-pitched whine containing a vindictive threatening quality as he mimicked the elderly-woman’s manner.