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‘No.’ Her response was firm. ‘I want you to leave.’ She was finding the man’s presence increasingly disturbing and wanted very much to be rid of him.

‘Not yet.’ It was as if he was waiting for something to happen.

Sara stood watching him in a frosty silence, uncertain how to proceed, when a second loud knocking startled her, causing her to spill her tea.

Brad, on the other hand, did not seem the least bit surprised and while she mopped up the counter with a towel, he answered the door. ‘I’ve been here half an hour,’ she heard him growl, ‘I expected you much sooner.’

‘I was in bed when Sam called,’ Steve’s familiar tones drifted into the kitchen.

‘You had Sam call Steve?’ she questioned, staring at Brad incredulously as she joined the men in the hall.

‘No. I simply assumed Sam would call him after he followed me here,’ he replied matter-of-factly, keeping his attention focused on Steve. ‘And now I want a complete explanation of this evening’s fiasco.’

‘I could use a cup of coffee,’ Steve smiled encouragingly towards Sara as he led Brad into the living room.

‘Then you can make it yourself,’ she snapped back, refusing to be eased out of the way while the men talked.

Throwing her an exasperated glance, Steve motioned for Brad to be seated. When the man refused, he too remained standing. ‘Ever since you decided to purchase the Cyprus Point Plantation I haven’t been able to rest easy,’ he explained in a calm tone. ‘I felt you needed someone to keep an eye on you, and since I knew you wouldn’t tolerate the idea, I decided to do it covertly.’

‘So you sent your sister?’ Brad’s voice was liquid ice. ‘You know all of my other operatives and I didn’t want to go outside my present organisation,’ Steve continued in the same unruffled manner, obviously used to Brad's intimidating manner.

‘And what if she'd got caught sneaking in? Monica’s not above calling the police and having her arrested,’ Brad demanded. ‘In fact it’s common knowledge that she always insists on having trespassers prosecuted. That’s why she has so little trouble with uninvited guests.’

‘I admit it was a calculated risk, but I was relying on Sara’s good judgment.’

Over Steve’s shoulder, Brad threw Sara a look that said he questioned if she had any judgment at all, and her chin shot up defiantly.

‘Besides, she didn't sneak in,’ Steve continued, ignoring the wordless interaction. ‘According to Sam, she was escorted in by Marc Fallon.’

Again Brad’s attention turned to Sara. ‘Does he know why you were there?’

‘No.’ She met his gaze squarely. ‘He thought I was a reporter for one of these scandal sheets. Apparently his sister had got on his nerves lately and he decided it would be a great joke to foist me upon her.’

‘I guess I should be grateful for that,’ he growled, then returned his attention to Steve. ‘Do you realise the damage you could have caused if anyone had got wind that my Chief of Security was worried about my personal safety? If the suspicion arose that I might not be around to fulfil my commitments, my business could be in serious trouble.’

‘I realise that,’ Steve continued to face the man levelly. ‘That’s why I didn’t go outside our present organisation.’

‘I wasn’t aware that your sister was on our payroll.’ Brad’s eyes travelled over her body as if memorising every detail for future reference. Sara shifted uncomfortably but stood her ground.

‘She isn’t. Like I said before, you would have recognised one of my regulars, just as you recognised Sam.’

‘So you sent a novice, and she not only nearly got herself caught but was almost killed,’ he scowled.

A look of remorse spread over Steve’s features as he directed his attention towards Sara. ‘I heard about the railing. I’m sorry, Sis.’

‘It’s all right,’ she assured him. ‘But don’t ask for any more favours!’

A flash of camaraderie passed between the brother and sister, and Steve threw her a wink.

Brad had watched the interplay, his expression remaining cool. ‘I suppose no harm has been done. But I don’t want a replay of this. If I’d known you could be taken in by ghost stories and rumours I would have thought twice about hiring you, Manderly.’

‘It’s not the ghost stories. It’s the facts,’ Steve defended himself, his manner businesslike and firm. ‘Two people have tried to buy Cyprus Point and both of them are dead.’

‘One was an old woman with a serious heart condition who should have died years earlier and the other was an alcoholic who ran his car off of a cliff while driving under the influence. It was merely a coincidence that both were trying to purchase Cyprus Point.’

‘Possibly ... probably,’ Steve admitted. ‘But I had a gut instinct about the ball tonight. Not only have you lived in Charleston for less than six years but you’re a Yankee. For most of us common Southerners, being from north of the Mason-Dixon line is not considered a sin, but when mixing with those who consider themselves a part of the old Southern aristocracy, the origin of your birth is a different matter. That bunch is so closed, a whole family has to die out before they let a new one in, and then it has to be a family whose members have been Southerners for a century or better. For you to have been invited to one of their gatherings was totally out of character.’

‘For Pete’s sake, is that what you were basing your suspicions on?’ Sara demanded, her hands coming up to rest on her hips as she shook her head in disgust. ‘He was invited because Monica Fallon has set her sights on having him for a husband.’ Monica’s name came out sounding slightly sour, bringing a flush to Sara’s cheeks, since she had meant merely to state a fact and not offer a hint of an opinion.

‘No kidding?’ Steve glanced questioningly at Brad, a half smile on his face, while Brad raised a noncommittal eyebrow.

In that moment Sara realised that, in spite of their heated exchange, the two men liked and respected one another.

Suddenly the sound of knocking again filled the air. This time it came from the door which opened on to the staircase leading to the downstairs portion of the house, and Sara groaned. A visit from Mrs Wynn was the last thing she needed tonight. The knocking sounded again, more insistent this time, and she opened the door to find her landlady standing there with a look of triumph on her face.

‘I refuse to put up with any more cars careening in and out of my driveway or coming to screeching halts in front of my house or the men clopping around up here at all hours of the day and night! Tonight has been the final straw! Either you agree to be out of here by the end of the week or I’ll call the police and have you arrested for disturbing the peace!'

Knowing that the woman would carry through with her threat, Sara sighed resignedly. ‘All right, I’ll move.'

‘By the end of the week,' Mrs Wynn repeated her stipulation firmly.

‘By the end of the week,' Sara confirmed coolly.

Nodding her approval, the woman then left, slamming the door behind her.

'I'm sorry, Sis,' Steve apologised. ‘I forgot you were having trouble.'

Normally an even-tempered girl, Sara had reached her breaking point. ‘Just get out, both of you,' she commanded.

Brad Garwood moved towards the door, the look on his face saying he was glad to be leaving this Bohemian dive.

Steve, however, hung back. 'I'm sorry, Sis. You know you can come stay with Helen and me.'

‘Out!' she snapped more sharply, and with a grimace he obeyed.

Mrs Wynn had made it sound as if Sara had men callers every night, and as she locked the door it bothered her that Brad Garwood had got the impression that she was wanton in her behaviour. With a mental shrug she tried telling herself that it didn't matter what the man thought, but for some reason it did. In fact she had a tremendous urge to cry. Deciding that she was simply tired and still a little shaken up from her near-accident, she went to bed. Surely in the morning life would look brighter.

Rising
early to catch the morning light, Sara again dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt. Carrying her cup of coffee into her studio, she pulled on one of Steve’s cast-off shirts which she used as a smock and attempted to finish the canvas now on her easel. It only needed a few touch-up strokes and then she would be free to spend all her time searching for a new place to live.

Being a realist, she had been looking off and on ever since Mrs Wynn had mentioned that her son and his wife were returning to Charleston. Her search, however, had proved futile, and she didn’t suspect that the housing situation was going to change in the next day or two. Probably she would be forced to move in with Steve and Helen temporarily and this she hated to do. She and Helen got along very well, but with two young children to handle, her sister-in-law did not need an indefinite house guest.

The thought of going back to Florida to live with her mother flashed distastefully through her mind. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Ida, she simply couldn’t put up with the woman’s interference, which had increased to dramatic proportions since her father’s death. For the first year following Ralph Manderly’s death, when Ida wasn’t calling or writing to offer advice to both her daughter and her daughter-in-law, she was visiting them until both Sara and Helen found it nearly impossible to remain civil. In an effort to maintain family harmony, they had finally convinced Ida that she needed to broaden her horizons and that travel was the answer. At the present time Ida was in the Mediterranean on a cruise.

But it wasn’t only Ida. Sara had fallen in love with Charleston. Its softness, its history, its charm all blended together to produce a special flavour found nowhere else.

Then there was her art. She had finally begun to gain a reputation locally. Just recently she had convinced one of the more prominent galleries to display her work on a regular basis.

And then there was her niece and nephew. She would miss them terribly if she left. Her mouth formed a determined line. There were too many reasons to stay. She just couldn’t leave.

Curiously, with that thought still strong in her mind, Brad Garwood’s face crossed her consciousness. ‘It’s his features,’ she muttered. 'They’re artistically appealing to me.’ Frowning at herself, she attempted to vanquish the disturbing image. But as she began to work the final greens into her painting, his eyes returned to haunt her. A warm glow filled her as she remembered their velvet softness following her near fall. The glow, however, turned to ice as that memory faded and was replaced by his final contemptuous glance as he had left her apartment. Angrily she forced herself to concentrate on her work.

Finishing the painting, she left it uncovered to dry and curling up on the couch started through the rental listings in the newspaper. Several phone calls later she was feeling totally depressed when a knock sounded on her door. Assuming it was Steve coming to apologise again, she didn’t bother with the chain.

‘Good morning, Miss Manderly,’ Brad Garwood’s impersonal tones greeted her surprised countenance.

In the daylight, she wasn’t certain if it was the startling green of his eyes or the sharp definition of his features that was the most fascinating. But only in an artistic sense, she qualified mentally.

‘You’re staring at me again,’ he reprimanded as if speaking to a child.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, then chided herself for letting the man unnerve her once again.

‘Are you going to ask me in, or do we conduct our business on your doorstep?’ he continued in an indulgent vein.

‘I didn’t know we had any business,’ she said coolly, regaining her equilibrium.

Ignoring her less-than-hospitable manner, he completed his entrance, closing the door behind him. ‘I want to apologise for the trouble I caused you last night. I’m sure finding another place to live can be a nuisance.’

‘You could call it that,’ she replied, trailing after him into the living room, infuriated with the way he made himself at home. Then remembering her manners even if he had forgotten his, she added, ‘However, your apology is accepted. After all, I suppose I do owe you my life. I could have been seriously injured falling on to that brick courtyard.’

‘I’m glad you realise that.’ He was regarding her with a darkly shuttered gaze she found disquieting, and her back stiffened defensively. ‘I gather you don’t work for your brother on a regular basis.’

‘I don’t work for my brother at all,’ she corrected sharply. ‘Last night was the first and last time I’ll help him. I would have refused to do even that, but he’s normally so overly protective of me I felt certain he had to be seriously concerned to ask for such a favour. I had no way of knowing that his concern was unfounded.’

He stared at her coolly for a long moment as if weighing her words, then said, ‘Although I find your artistic skill to my liking, I’ve always been under the impression that it’s difficult for an artist to support himself or herself on their art alone.’

‘Excluding wealthy sponsors or a developed reputation, you’re correct.’ As she caught the suggestive edge in his voice, a hostile flush began to redden her checks.

‘Could it be that one of the reasons you succumbed to your brother’s request that you attend the ball last night was that you thought you might meet someone who would be willing to sponsor you?’

‘No!’ she glared up at him, brown fury meeting green ice. ‘I prefer to take care of myself.’

‘And what exactly do you do to take care of yourself?' he persisted, his attitude one of a person who has come for a purpose.

‘What exactly do you think I do?’ Sara challenged, her pride keeping her chin high and her back straight.

‘I was wondering if you cooked.’

‘Cooked?’ She stared at him incredulously.

‘I’m in need of a housekeeper,’ he elaborated. ‘The person wouldn’t have to do any heavy cleaning—I have a service that comes in once a week for that. But I need someone to see that the rooms are kept straightened, the laundry is done on time, and to prepare meals.’

‘I would think you could find any number of suitable people for the position,’ Sara remarked suspiciously.

‘It’s a live-in position,’ he continued, disregarding her comment. ‘There’s a bedroom with a private bath off the kitchen, and the person has to be willing to adjust to an irregular schedule.’