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Brad, showered and dressed in a fresh pair of slacks and a knitted pullover, sat at the kitchen table. He rose as she emerged and moved towards her. ‘Let me see what damage has been done.’

Knowing that to refuse would be useless, she turned in his direction and his face darkened. ‘I should have slugged Fallon,' he scowled.

‘Please, not while I’m in receiving distance,’ she requested.

‘Sit down and I’ll fix you a fresh ice pack,’ he directed, continuing to look grim.

Ignoring his orders, she continued towards the refrigerator. ‘I can fix my own ice pack.’

Throwing her an exasperated glance, he left the kitchen only to return in a moment with two glasses of brandy. ‘Drink this,’ he said as she finished shoving ice into a plastic bag.

‘I’m not much of a drinker,’ she protested with a frown.

‘It will help settle your nerves,’ he persisted, taking her arm and leading her to the table.

‘My nerves are just fine,’ she argued weakly, the touch of his hand having a disquieting effect on her entire body. ‘All I need is a little sleep.’

But when she tried to pull loose he retained his hold and seated her in one of the chairs. ‘I need you to re-bandage my wrist,’ he pointed out, indicating the bandage lying on the table as he seated himself in a neighbouring chair.

His nearness made her tense and she took a sip of the brandy. ‘Did the salt water hurt your stitches?’ she asked, attempting to quell the heady sensation the feel of his flesh produced as she worked the bandage around his arm and hand.

‘No,’ he murmured, his uninjured hand coming up to tenderly touch her cheek just beyond the bruising.

Stiffening away, she took another sip of the brandy as his hand dropped back on to the table. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘I have a confession to make.’

Glancing up, Sara met green velvet looking down on her. ‘A confession?’ she stammered, taking yet another sip of the brandy.

‘Until tonight, I have honestly always believed you were, at least a brown belt in karate.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that I’m no good as a bodyguard?’ she quipped, taking a healthy swallow of the brandy. The warm liquid was not only beginning to taste very good but was producing a lovely, relaxed state of being.

‘Not unless you learn to duck,’ he drawled.

‘You know, we look like two refugees from a bar-room brawl,’ she mused, reaching out to stroke his jaw with the tips of her fingers. It was such a nice jaw.

‘Does your eye hurt much?’ he questioned gruffly, catching her hand and placing it back on the table.

‘A little,’ she admitted, finishing the brandy, then running the tip of her tongue slowly over her lips.

His features stiffened as the velvet green of his eyes took on subtle deep overtones.

‘You could kiss it and make it better like my grandmother used to do,’ she suggested. Then, shocked by her words, she pressed a hand against her forehead. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

Pushing his chair back, Brad walked over to the cabinet and extracted a bottle of aspirin. Taking out two, he ran a glass of water, then carried the pills and water to the table where Sara sat still wondering what had caused her to lose control like that and make such a ridiculous request. ‘Take these,’ he directed, and she did. After which he said, ‘And now it’s time for you to be in bed.’

‘I agree.’ Nodding to emphasise her words, she was suddenly caught in a wave of dizziness. To make matters worse, when she tried to stand, her legs refused to work properly. Sinking back into her chair, she had an overwhelming urge to giggle. She knew her condition was not the least bit funny, but she giggled anyway, then felt like a complete fool.

‘I’ve never seen one glass of brandy go to a person’s head so fast,’ Brad muttered.

‘One glass of brandy and three glasses of champagne,’ she corrected, adding with a petulant pout, ‘I told you I wasn’t much of a drinker.’

‘And you were right. You certainly can’t hold your liquor,’ he frowned. ‘I’ll have to remember that in future.'

'We don’t have a future,’ she mused, a wistful sadness coming into her eyes. ‘You and Monica have a future. You’re going to marry her and spite Hanna by having little half-Yankees running around Cyprus Point.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip. Monica and I are good friends and nothing more,’ he said. ‘Now stand up and go to bed.’

‘You’re not going to marry her?’ she glanced up hopefully.

‘No. Now stand up,’ he demanded sharply.

‘I’m not sure I can,’ she confessed, flushing embarrassedly as another giggle surfaced.

‘After tonight I can see why Steve is so protective of you,’ he grumbled, helping her into a standing position by placing his hands under her arms to steady her.

‘I resent that!’ she glared.

‘I know you do,’ he sighed in exasperation. Then wrapping his good arm around the tops of her legs, he again hoisted her on to his shoulder. This time she did not protest but simply hung limp for the short trip into her bedroom. Coming to a halt beside her bed, Brad leaned down and placed her in a standing position in front of him.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, looking up into his face with her one good eye while continuing to hold the ice pack over the other.

‘You’re welcome,’ he responded gruffly.

‘I’ve never had a strange man in my bedroom before. Not that you’re strange ...’ She bit her lip and her brow furrowed as she searched for a remedy to her remark.

‘I know what you mean,’ he growled, ‘Steve made it very clear to me. Now it’s time for you to go to bed.’

‘You feel so nice,’ she sighed, ignoring his instructions as she moved her hand upward over his chest to slip beneath the collar of his shirt.

‘Lady, you may not have a brown belt, but you are dangerous.’ His voice was a low grumble as he unfastened the knot of her robe and slipping the garment off, tossed it on to a chair. ‘Now get into bed.’

A petulant pout formed on her lips. ‘Only if you’ll kiss my eye and make it better. You’re partly to blame.’

‘I’m not to blame,’ he frowned.

‘Yes, you are,’ she argued.

‘If you promise to go directly to bed, then I’ll kiss it,’ he bargained tightly.

‘Promise,’ she smiled mischievously, dropping the ice pack on the bed and sliding her other hand up around his neck too.

Capturing her hands, Brad placed them down by her sides. Then holding her by the upper arms, he leaned down and lightly kissed her eye.

‘It hurts here too.’ She indicated a spot on her cheek.

Frowning, he kissed the spot.

‘And here.’ She pointed to the bridge of her nose.

Closing her eyes, she swayed against him invitingly as he bent to kiss this latest professed site of pain. Then because she could not resist, her arms circled him and her hands splayed out over his back to delight in the solid feel of him.

‘I suppose the whole side of your face hurts,’ he murmured, a huskiness entering his voice as he trailed kisses down her nose to discover her lips parted and waiting. But he did not immediately accept the invitation. First he placed tiny kisses at the corners of her mouth, then kissed each lip separately.

‘You have a very medicinal touch,’ Sara smiled, raising up on tiptoe to add her strength to the contact.

His breathing became ragged as his hands travelled down her sides to halt possessively on her hips. The fabric of her nightgown seemed non-existent beneath his touch as every curve of her body moulded to his with an intimacy she had never before known.

Then abruptly, he straightened and capturing her arms unwound them from his body. Before her disorientated mind could react, he had set her down on the bed, removed her slippers, lifted her legs on to the mattress and covered her with the sheet. ‘Now go to sleep!’ he barked, and stalked out of the room slamming the door behind him.

For what seemed like an eternity Sara lay, barely breathing, her body rigid in her state of humiliation and self-directed anger. Then the tears began to flow. How could she have offered herself to him so wantonly? She had certainly made a complete fool of herself this time. Brad might not be planning to marry Monica, but he also did not want her cluttering up his life.

Sara
awoke the following morning with a splitting headache to the sound of male voices arguing in the kitchen.

‘I thought I’d made it perfectly clear that I didn’t want anyone following me around!' Brad’s angry tones were distinct.

‘After the accident I felt it was necessary. You could have been set up,’ Steve pointed out, his tone matching that of his employer.

‘Since no further accidents have occurred, I think we can safely assume that it was merely a coincidence that the truck pulled out when it did,’ Brad growled.

‘You’re probably right.’ Steve’s voice was black. ‘But about last night...’

‘What about last night?’ Brad interrupted caustically. ‘If your man has eyes he knows I wasn’t the one who knocked your sister into the water. I was the one who dived in after her.’

‘What the hell was she doing out with Fallon in the first place? Everyone knows the man’s a drunkard and not to be trusted.’

‘And exactly how do you propose I was to stop her? Lock her in her room? I’m in a restricted position!’

‘You could have called me!’

‘And what would you have done? I don’t think Sara takes too kindly to being told what to do and who to do it with.’

‘Whether she likes it or not, I’m taking her home with me until she finds a place of her own,’ Steve announced with finality.

‘Yes, that would be for the best,' Brad’s voice was hard.

Groaning, Sara pulled the sheet more securely around her and choked back the new flood of tears that begged to be released as the memories of last night returned with a painful vividness. Alone in her room she flushed with embarrassment at her remembered wantonness and humiliation at Brad’s rejection.

The ringing of the phone interrupted any further exchange between the men. She heard Brad answer it and after a few moments say, ‘Sara will be fine except for a black eye.’ This was followed by a longer pause, after which he said in indulgently polite tones, ‘If you feel that strongly, of course I'll come.' Then as the receiver clicked into place, his voice returned to its formerly hard level as he addressed Steve. ‘That was Monica. She wants me to meet her at the yacht club and I don’t want one of your men following me. Is that understood?’

‘You’re the boss,’ Steve conceded in a disgruntled tone.

‘Try to keep that in mind in the future,’ Brad growled as he slammed out of the room.

Sara rose slowly, her head pounding violently with the increased elevation. Dressing in jeans and a tee-shirt, she gave Brad time to leave the house before she emerged into the kitchen.

‘Sara, you look dreadful!’ Steve greeted her with harsh concern as he rose and moved towards her.

‘Could you whisper?’ she requested in hushed tones, her hands going up to hold the sides of her head.

Leading her over to a chair, he found two aspirin and after getting her to swallow them, poured her a cup of coffee. ‘You’re acting more like you have a hangover than a black eye,' he frowned, tilting her head back to examine the purple discolouration tinting her face.

‘I have both,' she groaned, freeing herself and taking a sip of the coffee. It had the effect of swallowing acid. An intense feeling of anxiety swept over her, but in her present state she had trouble dissociating it from the pain.

Scowling, Steve walked over to the refrigerator and found some tomato juice.

‘Could you walk a little softer,’ she muttered, holding her head propped up on her hands, her elbows resting on the table. ‘Now that I know what a hangover feels like, I don’t understand why anyone would do this to themselves more than once.'

‘Here, drink this.' He pushed a glass filled with a red concoction in front of her.

‘It’s awful!' she protested after taking a cursory sip.

‘So is your condition! Drink it!' he commanded.

‘Whisper, please,’ she pleaded, attempting to swallow the whole thing in one gulp.

‘That should help.' He shook his head ruefully.

‘How, by taking my mind off my head and directing it towards my stomach?' Sara snarled.

‘About last night ...’

‘I refuse to discuss last night,’ she interrupted.

‘I can’t believe you let yourself drink too much. Especially when you were out with a lush,' he reprimanded, ignoring her interruption.

‘I didn’t drink too much when I was out with Marc. Your boss gave me a brandy when we got home. It was that on top of the champagne that did it,' she muttered.

‘He didn’t take advantage of you, did he?' Steve demanded.

‘I asked you to keep your voice down—and no, he didn’t. He’s not interested in me.' The chimes from the front door bell suddenly split the air and she moaned as the sound reverberated in her brain.

Shaking his head in abject disapproval, Steve left to answer the summons. Again, angry male voices filled the air, then Marc Fallon burst into the kitchen with Steve close behind.

‘Sara, I’m so sorry,’ he apologised, approaching her and tilting her head back for a better view of the injured eye. ‘I’m afraid jealousy brings out the worst in me.’

‘Apology accepted, provided you keep your voice down,’ she bargained, recalling her own irrational responses to this unhappy emotion.

‘I didn’t know salt water could cause a hangover,’ he frowned.

‘Brad gave her a brandy after they returned home,’ Steve explained in a grumble.

‘He didn’t take advantage of you, did he?’ Marc demanded.

‘No, he didn’t,’ she snapped back, wondering if that was all the male population thought about. Steve’s remedy was beginning to take effect and although she was physically better, a stronger and stronger sense of impending disaster was building within her.

‘I think you should go back to bed,’ Marc advised, ‘you look even paler than when I came in.’

‘No ... something is wrong,’ Sara shook her head trying to clear the fog.

‘Are you sick?’ Steve was immediately by her side, feeling her forehead.

‘No, it’s not that.’ She brushed his hand away. ‘I can’t explain why, but I have the same sort of feeling I had the night of Brad’s accident. Something terrible is going to happen—I know it.’