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‘You’re so lucky to have a Fallon for a sponsor,’ the woman stated with a happy sigh. ‘Now I must rush. Are these four paintings all right for me to take along?’

‘Yes,’ Sara confirmed. Then becoming mobile in an effort to escape Brad’s gaze, she picked up two of the suggested works. ‘I’ll help carry them to your car.’

‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Garwood,’ Margarete extended her hand towards Brad. ‘It’s always a pleasure to meet anyone who’s willing to help a struggling artist.’

‘It would appear that Sara is not exactly struggling any more,’ he returned coolly.

‘I suppose not.’ Margarete’s smile faded somewhat as she quickened her exit. Outside, after carefully loading the paintings, she looked thoughtfully at Sara. ‘It seems that your Mr Garwood is quite out of sorts over Marc Fallon’s interest in you. I thought you told me that you and he had a business relationship.’

‘We do,’ Sara frowned. ‘It’s just that sometimes he forgets he’s my employer and not my guardian.’

‘I’m not so sure he sees himself in a guardianship role,’ Margarete mused, forming her lips into a teasing pout.

‘He’s planning to marry Monica Fallon,’ Sara offered as proof of her contention.

‘Monica Fallon? My, my, that would put him right in the middle of Charleston society. Yes, it would be a very good move for a man in his position. The Fallon name carries a great deal of weight here. Which,’ Margarete added, bestowing a hug on Sara, ‘is why I’m so happy for you.’

‘Don’t expect too much,’ Sara warned. ‘I’ve spoken to Marc and told him that I don’t want him manipulating my career.’

‘My dear, giving an artist a push isn’t manipulating their career,’ Margarete admonished.

‘I want to make it on my own,’ Sara remained firm.

‘Artists!’ Margarete shook her head, then gave Sara a second hug to say she forgave her before climbing into her car and driving away.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?’ Brad’s icy tones met Sara as she went back into the house.

‘Obviously, you’ve already been considering the possibilities,’ she snapped back, facing him defiantly.

‘I’m not in the mood for games,’ he growled. ‘I want a straight answer.’

‘You’re merely my employer, not my guardian. Therefore I see no reason for me to account for the incidents in my life to you,’ she threw over her shoulder, moving past him to enter the kitchen in an attempt to escape this confrontation.

‘Do you want me to call Steve?’ he threatened, following her and catching her by the arm. Swinging her around to face him, he added, Tm sure he would have a few questions.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ She backed down a little. She didn’t want Steve brought into this too. ‘Marc simply bought all of my works that Margarete had in the gallery.’

‘And why would he do a thing like that?’ he questioned drily.

‘Maybe he likes my work,’ she retorted, flushing angrily.

‘And maybe he’s decided to play your angel. He’ll distribute the pieces among his friends, keeping a few to display prominently in his own home, and very soon it will become the in thing to own a Sara Manderly painting or sculpture. Now tell me, what does he expect in return?’

‘He doesn’t expect anything! And he’s not going to pull this kind of a stunt again,’ she glared, brown fury meeting green ice as they stood practically toe to toe, both bodies tensed for battle.

‘And how would you know that?’ Brad raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Because I’ve just come from his home. I told him I didn’t want his help with my career and he agreed.’

‘I detect a faint waver,’ Brad noted sarcastically.

‘Eccentrics are a little difficult to trust,’ she hedged, refusing to tell him about the murals or Marc’s attempt to bribe her into a date.

‘I hope you keep that in mind. Marc Fallon can be very persistent and very charming when he sees something or someone he wants,’ Brad warned bluntly.

Suddenly, uncontrollably, slow hot tears began to trickle down her cheeks as she balled her hands into tight fists. ‘You don’t think I’m any good as an artist!’ she accused. ‘That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You don’t think anyone could actually buy my paintings simply because they like them!’

Drawing an angry breath, he ran a hand through his hair. Then pulling her gently into his embrace, he smoothed her hair in a roughly caressing motion. ‘That’s not true,’ he denied gruffly. ‘I like your work very much. In fact, there’s a painting upstairs I particularly want for my workroom. When I found out why Margarete was here, I told her it was already promised to me.’

For a moment, Sara considered struggling, but as the warm pressure of his chest moved in rhythmic breathing against her, the strange sense of belonging swept over her again. A mistiness clouded her mind and her sobbing began to subside. ‘Honestly?’ she stammered, bringing her hand up to wipe the tears from the cheek not resting against his shoulder.

‘Honestly,’ he replied, his arm tightening to hold her more securely. ‘Now, I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful where Marc Fallon is concerned. He’s not the type of man you should associate with.’

His words brought her back to reality. Stiffening, she pushed away from him. ‘Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself,’ she flared, taking a couple of steps backward to place some distance between them. ‘And if I need any further brotherly advice, I’ll call Steve!’

‘Sara,’ he breathed her name warningly. For a long moment he stood staring at her indecisively, then he growled, ‘I’ve got work to do,’ and stalked out of the kitchen.

As soon as he was gone, her flush of anger turned to one of embarrassment as she reviewed her childish behaviour. How could she have allowed herself to dissolve into his arms in tears? What difference did it make whether or not he liked her work? He wasn’t an expert on art. ‘It’s just been a very difficult day,’ she muttered, still staring at the door through which he had passed. ‘I would have cried over anything just to relieve the tension.’ But even as she said this she knew it was a lie. Everything the man upstairs thought and felt made a difference to her. ‘I’ve got to find a place to live tomorrow,’ she sighed, ‘before I make a complete fool of myself.’

Forcing herself into motion, she started towards her bedroom, only to come to a halt when she spotted Brad’s wrist bandage lying on the counter. ‘Men!’ she snapped.

Wishing she didn’t care so very much about this one particular male, she grabbed up the piece of elastic and stormed upstairs to his workroom. ‘You’re supposed to be wearing th ...’ she blurted out angrily, only to stop in mid-word as she reached his drawing board and saw the fresh bandage on his wrist.

‘That one got wet when I was washing the dishes from breakfast,’ he explained drily. ‘I didn’t feel like walking around feeling soggy all day, so I bought another. But I do appreciate your concern.’ The ‘even if you don’t appreciate mine’ was there in spirit.

‘You should have left them for me,’ she returned tightly, refusing to apologise for her earlier outburst.

‘I’m not totally handicapped,’ he frowned.

‘Of course not,’ she muttered through clenched teeth. Spinning sharply around, she started back out the door, but found herself pausing and turning back towards him. ‘Did you get it wrapped correctly?’

‘Good enough.’ His manner was one of dismissal and she quickly took the cue and completed her exit.

Back in the kitchen, she slammed a few drawers and attempted to put the man out of her mind, but the effort was useless. Removing a roast from the freezer, she started to put it in the microwave to defrost, then remembered that this was Saturday.

Knowing that Brad might have other plans, she groaned as she realised that she was going to have to face him again. Marching stoically upstairs, she knocked, then hesitantly entered his workroom. He was still sitting at his drawing board, a look of anger mingled with frustration causing deep furrows to crease his brow. ‘I apologise for interrupting you again/ she said, her voice softening in response to the tiredness evident in his eyes. ‘But I was about to start dinner and it occurred to me that you might have other plans for this evening.’

‘This is your weekend off,’ he reminded her.

‘I have to fix something for myself and I thought that if you were going to be at home, I would prepare dinner for the both of us. You could consider it an exchange for the breakfast,’ she replied stiffly.

‘I’ll be staying home,’ he conceded.

Nodding, Sara turned to leave, but with her hand on the door she glanced back over her shoulder to see him rubbing his forehead with his hand. The urge to return to him and massage his shoulders while trying to talk him into getting some rest was strong. But she knew he would not appreciate her interference. Stoically, she closed the door and hurried down the stairs.

The flowers began to arrive shortly after she had started dinner. The first arrangement was all red roses with a card from Marc begging her to forgive him. The second came fifteen minutes later and was yellow roses with a similar card. When the doorbell rang a third time, Sara made up her mind to put a stop to this.

‘Please, take them back,’ she told the delivery boy.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said, his voice and expression registering surprise that she would even make such a request. ‘They’ve already been paid for.’

‘All right,’ she conceded. ‘But this is the last. Agreed?’

‘No, ma’am,’ the boy shook his head apologetically. ‘I have several more in the truck for you.’

‘Several more?’ Sara frowned.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the boy smiled brightly, obviously impressed with his customer’s extravagance.

‘Then remove the cards and deliver the rest of them to the local hospital. Say they’re a gift from an anonymous donor,’ she directed.

‘I can’t do that. I’d lose my job,’ he protested.

‘Then bring them all in now,’ she said with a resigned sigh.

‘I can’t do that either. Mr Fallon was very specific in his orders, and he’s one of our best customers.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Sara muttered, as the boy nervously shoved the vase of flowers into her hands and tipping his hat hurried back to his van. She was still holding the new arrived arrangement of white roses when the phone rang. Picking it up, she was not surprised to hear Marc’s voice on the other end of the line.

‘Have you decided to forgive me?’ he asked by way of a greeting.

‘I told you this afternoon that you were forgiven as long as you didn’t pull another stunt like the one this morning,’ she said. ‘Now will you please stop the flow of flowers.’

‘First I want to know if you’ve forgiven me enough to have dinner with me,’ he bargained.

‘You’re totally forgiven, but I will not have dinner with you,’ she replied firmly.

‘You’re still mad at me for suggesting that you go out with me as a bribe,’ he accused. ‘I admit that was ungallant of me, but never mind. I hope you’re not allergic to chocolates?'

Before she could make any response, the line went dead. Shaking her head, she carried the third bouquet into the kitchen. ‘It's a good thing they’re coming in their own containers,’ she muttered, checking on the roast, ‘or I’d be forced to arrange them in the cleaning buckets!’

Ten minutes later she was standing in the hallway with the fourth bouquet, pink roses this time, when the doorbell rang again. Opening the door with the intention of giving the delivery boy a piece of her mind, she was surprised to discover an elderly man standing on the doorstep.

‘Are you Miss Sara Manderly?’ he enquired politely.

‘Yes,’ she answered dubiously, her eyes falling on the large box the man was holding.

‘Mr Fallon asked me to deliver this to you personally,’ he smiled broadly, extending the beautifully wrapped package towards her.

Knowing from her experience with the florist’s delivery boy that a rejection would only meet with failure, she smiled graciously. ‘Excuse me just one moment,’ she requested. Shoving the first two flower arrangements close together on the hall table, she placed the one she was holding next to them and accepted the box from the man.

‘I hope you enjoy them,’ he said with a pleased grin before walking away.

Closing the door, Sara stood staring at the gift. Whatever it was, it was heavy. Removing the wrapping, she discovered a five-pound box of a very expensive brand of chocolates. ‘I didn’t even know they made a box this big,’ she mused.

‘What’s going on?’ Brad demanded, coming down the stairs at that moment. ‘Are we having an epidemic of...' The words trailed off as he caught sight of the box in her hands and the three flower arrangements crowded together on the table.

‘Apparently Marc Fallon still thinks I’m angry with him,’ Sara explained tersely.

‘To a bystander like myself it would appear that the man is attempting to do more than simply apologise,’ he commented coolly. ‘I hope you won’t take this wrong, but I think your attitude towards his purchase of your paintings is a bit naive.’

‘I am not naive,’ she snapped, resenting the look on his face so reminiscent of Steve when he was about to point out that he had warned her and she had not listened. ‘I’ve made it clear to him that no matter how many paintings he buys, I’m not for sale.’

‘I don’t think he’s totally convinced,’ Brad growled, indicating the candy and the flowers with his eyes.

‘I can handle this myself, thank you,’ Sara glared back.

‘Then see if you can put a stop to these constant interruptions,’ he requested acidly, as he retraced his steps back to his workroom.

‘I’m trying,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Men! They think they know everything!’

Marc called again a few minutes later and she again tried to reason with him. However, he continued to insist that only her agreement to go out with him would prove that he was forgiven. This she refused to do, and the flowers continued to arrive.

‘This place is beginning to look like a mortuary,’ Brad remarked icily, when she called him down to dinner. ‘I thought I asked you to do something about stemming the flow.’

‘Yes, master,’ she muttered. Her nerves were wearing thin, and his obvious anger at a situation over which she had little control did nothing to help.