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His jaw went rigid as he stiffened away from her touch. Then as if he felt he needed to offer some sort of explanation, he said briskly, ‘Your hand is cold.'

‘I’m sorry.’ Her words came out with a caustic quality as she fought back the pain. ‘I seem to be unable to get the shape right. I think I’ll stop for tonight.’

‘Fine,’ he muttered, rising and leaving immediately. Her hands shook as she recovered the clay. How could she be in love with a man who found her so unappealing that he cringed at her touch?

After
a restless night, Sara awoke the next morning to the
C
smell of bacon frying and coffee perking. Dressing hurriedly, she went into the kitchen to find Brad breaking eggs into the skillet. The table was set for two.

‘It’s about time you were getting up,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘You should have woken me,' she yawned, noticing how the muscles of his back moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. Then, angry with herself, she diverted her attention to the clock on the wall. It read six-thirty. She had overslept, but not by much, considering the fact that this was Saturday. ‘I would have made your breakfast. You’re still supposed to use your wrist as little as possible.’

‘My wrist feels much better,’ he professed, although she noticed that he was doing nearly everything one-handed. ‘Besides, it’s Saturday and this is your weekend off.' As he dished up the eggs on to the plates, he added, ‘I made enough for two. Will you join me?’

Hesitantly, Sara sat down at the table. The back door was open, letting in the soft scent of lilac from the garden.

‘I’m not a bad cook,’ Brad assured her. Even the hint of amusement in his eyes could not mask the traces of tiredness. Obviously he was not sleeping well and she guessed his wrist was bothering him more than he wanted to admit.

‘It looks delicious,’ she murmured, confused by his attentiveness. It was a confusion that did not last long.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said between bites. ‘I’ll be closing the deal on Cyprus Point this week. As soon as the papers are signed I plan to move out there to personally direct the renovations, and that will leave this house unoccupied. It’s occurred to me that you could stay on here as a sort of caretaker. I don't want you rushing into a lease on an apartment that would be unsuitable. Besides, someone should be here to look after the place.

‘It’s really unnecessary for you to move out of your home to be rid of me. I’m sure I’ll find a suitable residence this weekend and be gone by the middle of the week.’ Sara rose awkwardly, anger holding back her tears as she headed towards her room.

‘Damn it, Sara!’ Brad caught her by the shoulders before she could make good her escape. Keeping her back towards him, his hands closed around her upper arms, holding her captive. ‘You’ve got this all wrong.’

‘I apologise for overreacting,’ she said, forcing herself to sound reasonably calm. ‘I realise that you only want to clear the way for your wife.’

‘Your being in this house with me at Cyprus Point won’t interfere ...’

‘That’s impossible,’ she interrupted hotly. ‘People will say I’m your in-town mistress, and I’m sure even your very understanding Monica Fallon wouldn’t agree to such a situation!’ Twisting out of his grasp, she grabbed the newspaper and her handbag from her room and stormed back through the kitchen.

‘Sara!’ Brad said her name in an exasperated tone as if he was trying to reason with a child.

Ignoring him, she slammed out the back door and climbed into her car. She didn’t know which she hated worse, his big brother routine or the times when he acted as if he couldn’t stand to have her around. She only knew that he had her on an emotional rollercoaster and she intended to get off as soon as possible.

By noon she was feeling thoroughly depressed. The only reasonable place she had found would not be available until the middle of the next month. Stopping by the house for a sandwich, she found a note from Brad saying that he had gone to pick up his car and that Margarete Grimes had called and wanted Sara to call her back.

Pouring herself a glass of orange juice, Sara dialled the number for the gallery.

Margarete was absolutely bubbling when she came to the phone. ‘You must have made quite a conquest,’ she teased laughingly.

‘Conquest?’ Sara questioned, hot and tired and in no mood for games.

‘Marc Fallon was waiting outside when I opened up this morning,’ Margarete elaborated.

‘Marc?’ Sara muttered.

‘Yes, Marc. Why didn’t you tell me you knew the Fallons?’

‘I don’t really know them well,’ Sara defended, developing a very uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘Well, you must have impressed Marc. He bought every piece of your work I had,’ Margarete laughed.

‘Every one?’ Sara choked.

‘Every one. Even the ones you had asked me to store, both the paintings and the sculptures.’

‘Every one?’ Sara repeated, too stunned to think.

‘Every one,’ Margarete reaffirmed. ‘He muttered something about a “glass slipper”, but I’ve heard he’s a bit eccentric. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. Having a Fallon, even an eccentric, for a sponsor practically ensures your success as a recognised artist in Charleston.’

‘Glass slipper?’ Sara frowned, her shock turning swiftly to anger.

‘Yes, dear. Now it’s imperative that you bring me more. Once he hangs his, I expect other customers will be coming in soon looking for your work.’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ Sara managed, almost too furious to speak. Hanging up the phone before Margarete could protest, she stormed out of the house.

By the time she reached the Fallon home, her anger had reached the stage of a red fury, causing the staid butler to look dubiously into her flushed face when she requested to speak to Marc.

‘I’ll see if he is in, Miss Manderly,’ the man said, leaving her in the entrance hall while he went upstairs. It was obvious he was not used to having irate young women disturbing his normally serene, dignified environment.

Returning a few minutes later, he informed her that Marc would see her in the upstairs sitting room.

‘Sara!’ Marc greeted her joyfully as she entered to find him surrounded by her paintings and sculptures.

Monica was there too, looking thoroughly perplexed. ‘Miss Manderly,’ she received Sara with a quiet smile. ‘It seems that my brother is quite taken with your work, though I’m uncertain where we’ll find space to place all of these.’

‘There’s no need to worry,’ Marc assured his sister, continuing to move from one painting to another, examining each in turn and smiling broadly with appreciation. ‘I don’t intend to horde the whole lot. I’ll give a few away to some of our closest friends. It will soon be the in thing to have a Manderly hanging in one’s home.’

‘That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.’ Sara attempted to maintain an air of self-control, but her anger was too intense not to show.

‘It would seem that Miss Manderly is upset with you, brother dear,’ Monica remarked with an indulgent frown. ‘And since I prefer to remain out of your personal squabbles, I hope you’ll excuse me.’

‘Of course,’ Marc nodded indifferently at his sister’s departure.

Pausing beside Sara, Monica said in a whispered aside, ‘Don’t be too rough on him. I’m afraid the tendency to go overboard when someone or something becomes important to us is an inherited family trait.’

Sara’s anger faded a fraction. In spite of the jealousy she felt towards the woman, she had to admit that Monica had class. Someone else might have accused her of misleading Marc or being an opportunist. If Monica had such notions, she kept them well hidden beneath an exterior of graceful calmness.

Attempting to match her with the sister Marc described on their first encounter was impossible, but then Marc’s view of the world was shaded by his eccentricities and one hundred proof Bourbon. ‘I’ll try not to,’ she promised.

Monica nodded and closed the door on her way out to provide them with privacy.

‘You can’t buy up all my works!’ Sara began as soon as she and Marc were alone.

‘And why not?’ he questioned with an innocent smile as he put down the painting he was inspecting and walked over to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a drink. ‘They were for sale.’

‘Yes, they were for sale, but ...’

‘All great artists had sponsors,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m sure I read that somewhere. Either that or they died destitute, and we can’t have that happening to you. Therefore, I’ll be your sponsor. You must understand the realities of life. Becoming a success doesn’t rest on talent alone. There are hundreds of talented people out there waiting to be discovered,’ he waved his arm in an expansive gesture before adding, ‘Knowing the right people always helps.’

‘I prefer to make it on my talent alone,’ Sara returned firmly.

‘In the end, you will,’ he said, raising his glass in salute. ‘I’m merely giving you a nudge in the right direction; bringing you out into the limelight, so to speak.’

‘I want you to promise me that you won’t buy any more of my work,’ she insisted, refusing to relent.

‘Not even if I fall madly in love with a piece?’ he questioned woefully, placing a hand over his heart in a gesture of regret.

‘Marc, please!’ she sighed in exasperation.

‘I love the way your mouth forms that little pout when you’re frustrated,’ he said, catching her chin to hold her face upwards.

Backing free of his touch, she frowned up at him. ‘I’m serious about this.’

‘All right, no more wholesale purchases,’ he promised.

‘And you’ll return these?’ With a sweep of her arm she indicated her paintings and sculptures scattered around the room.

‘Absolutely not!’ He shook his head in a negative gesture to emphasis his determination. ‘I promised you a glass slipper, and I always keep my promises.’

‘Glass slipper?’ Attempting to follow his thinking was making her dizzy.

‘The glass slipper was the key to Cinderella’s freedom from a life of drudgery. Your success as an artist will provide you with the financial independence to achieve the same end. In other words, you can move out of Brad Garwood’s kitchen.’

‘My situation is quite a bit different from that of Cinderella,’ she said, determined to make her point clear. ‘In the first place, I’m independent. I get paid for my services. I have the choice of remaining or leaving to find other employment if the situation doesn’t suit me. What you’re offering me is a dependency, and a dubious one at that. Even if you were able to promote me into the “limelight”, as you put it, for the rest of my life I could never be certain if it was my art people wanted or that they’d merely been duped into a fad and now so many people had so much invested they didn’t dare let it die. With that question hanging over my head, I could never be happy. I can’t accept a success based on someone else’s manoeuvres.’

‘All right, all right!’ Marc held up a hand in a gesture of surrender. ‘But I still refuse to return any of my purchases. I’ve grown much too fond of them.’

Shaking her head in exasperation, Sara started towards the door.

In two easy strides, he blocked her exit. ‘What do you think about murals,’ he questioned, smiling down on her playfully.

‘Murals?’

‘Yes, murals. I’ve been seriously considering getting a . place of my own and I could commission you to do a mural or two for the walls. It used to be quite the rage.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she refused.

‘You could do anything you like; whatever suited your taste. I would even allow you to pick out the furnishings for the rooms to be certain they didn’t clash with your painting,’ he bargained.

‘I don’t think I want to take on such a large project right at this moment,’ she hedged, her instincts warning her not to get mixed up with the Fallons.

‘I’m not used to being so thoroughly rejected,’ Marc smiled down on her charmingly. ‘And I have to admit I find it a challenge.’

‘I don’t mean it to be one,’ Sara replied, ‘I’m simply trying to be honest with you.’

‘Then I find your honesty refreshing, and I intend to get to know you better, Sara Manderly. Will you have dinner with me tonight?’

‘I appreciate the offer, but the answer is no,’ she refused politely but firmly.

‘Think of it as a bribe to ensure my co-operation,’ he suggested mischievously.

‘In that case, the answer is an emphatic “no”,’ she frowned.

‘Then think of it as Prince Charming attempting to make amends,’ he revised the offer.

‘You can make amends by not pulling another stunt like this again,’ she said, moving around him to reach the door.

‘Think of...’ he began again, but she did not catch the rest of his words as she left the room, closing the door securely behind her. Eccentrics, no matter how charming or handsome or wealthy, held no interest for her.

‘So far this day has gone from bad to worse,’ she muttered during the drive home, adding, ‘and worser,’ as she turned the corner and spotted Margarete’s silver Buick parked in front of the house. ‘It has now reached horrible,’ she amended with a groan as she pulled into the driveway and discovered Brad’s car there too.

Inside, she found both of them upstairs in her studio.

‘This bust of Mr Garwood is coming along marvellously,’ Margarete effervesced.

‘Thank you.’ Sara forced a smile while mentally noting that effervescing was one of Margarete’s true talents. The woman could make even the worst artist think they were a Picasso.

Although Brad remained silent, his expression one of studied politeness, Sara felt his hostility.

Margarete, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to it. ‘You didn’t say when you would bring more paintings over,’ the woman continued. ‘So I thought I would stop by and prod you with this cheque.’

Sara accepted the extended piece of paper. It was for a substantial sum, but that was not what made her hand shake as she shoved it into the pocket of her jeans. Brad was watching her closely and the colour of his eyes was darkening with each passing moment. ‘Thank you,’ she managed as Margarete smiled triumphantly.