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'We won't today,' he said. 'I begged some carrots from your stepmother. I left

them in the tack room.'

As they walked back under the arch, Natalie was bitterly conscious of Eliot's

presence beside her, looming over her, a shadow in her personal sun. He

must have gone very hungry a lot of the time to keep his weight to a

reasonable level for his height, she thought vindictively.

She hated the way he looked around him as they walked along. It

was—proprietorial, as if he'd already taken charge.

Well, he could be in for a shock. He was only the junior partner, and he

would find, unless she missed her guess, that Grantham had every intention

of remaining firmly in the saddle.

Eliot said, as if he'd broken in somehow on her thoughts, 'Your father has

made quite a name for himself in schooling difficult horses.'

'Yes,' she agreed. 'He's fantastic with them.'

'I'm sure he is,' he said. 'What a pity one can't apply the same techniques to

difficult women.'

He opened the tack room door and motioned her ahead of him with a faintly

mocking gesture. He was smiling.

But not for long, she thought.

'Tell me, Mr Lang,' she said, poisonously sweet, -are those teeth your own?'

'Indeed they are, Mrs Drummond,' he said gravely. 'Would you like me to

prove it by biting you?'

She saw the bag of carrots on a shelf, and was glad of an excuse to move

away from him. 'No, I wouldn't.'

'What a pity,' he said. 'Because it's time someone made a mark on you,

sweetheart.' He'd followed her, and as she reached for the carrots, he took

her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, picking up her slim, ringless

left hand and studying it, brows raised. 'Because the unfortunate Tony

doesn't seem to have left much of an impression, in any way.'

Outraged, Natalie tried to pull away from his grasp. 'Let go of me!'

'Why?' he jeered. 'Because you'll die if I touch you?' He mimicked a falsetto,

and smiled cynically as her lips parted in a soundless gasp. 'Well, let's risk it

and see.' -

She tried to say 'No', but her protest was stifled as his mouth descended on

hers. He was thorough, and not particularly gentle. All the antagonism

between them was' there in the kiss, but charged, explosive with some other

element she could neither recognise nor analyse.

When at last Eliot released her, flushed and breathless, she took a step

backwards, leaning against a cupboard, aware that her legs were trembling

so much she was in real danger of collapsing on the floor.

Eliot's hand reached out, half cupping her breast, his fingers seeking the

place where her heart hammered unevenly against her ribs.

'You see?' he said drily. 'You survived, after all.'

Was this survival, Natalie thought dazedly, this crippling confusion of mind

and body? This strange quivering ache deep inside that she had never known

before? And all this for a kiss that hadn't been a kiss at all, but some kind of

punishment.

Mutely she stared up at him, seeing the mockery fade suddenly from the

hazel eyes, watching them grow curiously intent as his hand moved with

new purpose on the swell of her breast, his fingers seeking the tumescent

nipple through the thin dark blue cotton of her dress.

And was as suddenly removed. He said, 'I think we have company.'

In a disconnected part of her mind, Natalie heard the sound of voices, the

crunch of boots on gravel. Wes, she thought, and the others coming back for

evening stables.

Eliot reached past her and retrieved the bag of carrots. His arm brushed

against her, and her body wentrigid. He was aware of the reaction, and

smiled sardonically down into her white face.

'A piece of advice, Mrs Drummond,' he said lightly. 'In future when you

want to slag me off, keep your voice down—unless you want to suffer the

consequences.'

He walked away, leaving her still leaning against the cupboard as if she had

neither the strength nor the will to move.

As SOON as she had pulled herself together, Natalie went up to the house and

straight to her room, bypassing Beattie who could be heard humming

happily to herself in the kitchen.

And in her room she stayed, until a couple of hours later Andrew's Jaguar

pulled away, with his passenger safely on board.

When she ventured downstairs, Beattie was alone in the drawing-room,

sipping a sherry, and putting a few stitches in a piece of embroidery with an

air of satisfaction that was almost tangible.

'I've persuaded your father to have a rest before dinner,' she told Natalie

happily. 'I asked Andrew and Eliot to stay, but they had to get back.' Her

eyes twinkled, and she lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'Andrew told me

that Eliot didn't travel up here alone. Apparently he has a lady companion,

booked into the International Hotel.' She pursed her lips with mock

primness. 'Blonde hair, apparently, and a figure like a Page Three girl. I

think Andrew was quite envious, poor old thing!'

Natalie forced a smile, as she poured herself a drink. 'I suppose voluptuous

blondes are going to become part of the scenery from now on.' She tried to

speak lightly, but the words sounded stilted, but fortunately Beattie seemed

unaware.

'One thing's certain,' she said. 'Nothing will ever be the same round here.'

To Natalie, the words sounded like a prophecy of doom.

That night, as she was brushing her hair, she found she was studying herself

in the mirror, almost clinically. Her face, naturally pale under the cloud of

copper hair, was like a small cat's with its green eyes and high cheekbones.

Not the face of a woman at peace with herself, but there was little wonder

about that. For the rest of her— medium height with a figure on the thin side

of slender.

About as far removed from a Page Three girl as it was possible to get, she

told herself in bitter self-derision. And as that was where Eliot's tastes lay,

that would seem to guarantee her immunity in the future as long as she

behaved herself.

He had things to settle in Lambourn, so he wouldn't be returning to

Yorkshire immediately, which would give her a breathing space to come to

terms with the change at Wintersgarth.

He had commissioned Beattie to engage a local decorating firm to repaint

the flat, and would be sending up a list of the exact colours he wanted on the

walls. The quiet neutrals she had chosen were being banished for ever, it

seemed.

Over dinner, listening to Grantham and Beattie discussing their immediate

plans, Natalie had broken in abruptly.

'Did you know he might be bringing some extra staff with him?'

'He mentioned it, yes,' Grantham nodded.

'You didn't mention we were up to strength?'

He smiled broadly, 'At the moment, lass, maybe. But an extra pair of hands

won't hurt—and there'll be more horses to see to.'

'Oh, of course,' she said, heavily sarcastic. 'We're going to be deluged with

owners wanting us to take their horses now that the great Eliot Lang is

coming amongst us. No doubt he told you so himself.'

'He's had a couple of approaches from people he's ridden for,' Grantham said

mildly. 'What's odd about that?'

She bit her lip. 'Approaches are one thing, firm offers are another.' She

looked at him anxiously. 'Dad, don't go overboard, will you?'

He shook his head. 'I had a heart attack, my girl, not a brain seizure!'

Natalie wasn't particularly reassured. She said, 'If— and I mean if—these

extra horses come, where the hell are we going to put them?'

'In the new extension.'

'But that's only at the outline planning stage,' she protested.

'Not any more.' He poured himself some more coffee. 'I set the architect on

preparing detailed drawings last week. Permission'll be a formality.'

'And financing?' she asked huskily. 'We're still paying off the

accommodation block and...'

'And I've got a partner now. A partner with money.' He gave her a genial

wink. 'This is going to be his pigeon, not mine, so stop panicking.'

The conversation had only served to bring home to Natalie with increasing

emphasis how potent a force Eliot Lang was going to be at Wintersgarth.

Oh God, she thought savagely as she got into bed, why can't there be some

sort of time slip? Why can't we go back to the time before Grantham had his

heart attack, when everything was normal—and safe?She switched off her

light and settled herself for sleep, but it proved elusive. She found she was

being tormented by vivid mental images of Eliot Lang locked together with

his voluptuous blonde in some Harrogate hotel room.

When she did at last fall asleep, for the first time in many months she

dreamed of Tony, and woke in the morning to find tears on her face.

The internal phone in the office rang and Natalie answered it, her mind still

fixed on the farrier's bill in front of her. 'Yes, Beattie?'

'The removal van's arrived,' her stepmother announced triumphantly. 'Do

you want to join me in a good pry?'

Natalie stifled a sigh. 'I—I haven't really got time.'

'Well, never mind.' Beattie sounded disappointed but cheerful. 'He's going to

ask us to dinner when he's sorted himself out a bit, so we can see everything

then.'

Hurrah, Natalie thought bleakly, as she replaced her receiver. The date on

the calendar had been circled in red for quite some time now. There was no

way she could forget that today was the day Eliot finally moved into

Wintersgarth.

He'd been up several times in the intervening period, staying at the pub in the

village. He had attended the planning hearing when permission for the

stabling extension tfad been given, without problems as Grantham had

predicted. He had checked on the progress of the decorators, and the firm

he'd employed to install a new kitchen.

'I've seen the drawings,' Beattie had disclosed, awed. 'It looks more like the

deck of a space ship than a kitchen!' She'd given the Aga an affectionate pat.

'I'd be afraid of pressing the wrong button!'

Natalie wasn't the world's greatest cook, and the culinary arrangements at

the fiat had been basic to say the least, but it still galled her that he was

making such sweeping changes. But then everything he did seemed to find

some raw spot, she thought ruefully, particularly as so far he hadn't seemed

to put a foot wrong. She was ashamed to acknowledge that she'd harboured a

secret hope that Wes and the lads would resent him, had looked forward to

seeing him cut down to size in some subtle way. But it hadn't happened. He

seemed to have hit the right note with them, as with everyone. Except

herself.

She went back to the farrier's bill, but she couldn't concentrate. All she could

think of was that the flying visits were over. Eliot was moving in, for good.

And she would have to start thinking seriously about moving out.

She had dreaded having to face him again, after those few searing minutes in

the tack room. She'd expected some pointed reminder, a look, a drawled

remark. She'd been on edge waiting for it. But it hadn't happened—yet.

Perhaps Eliot had also had time to come to terms with a few things too. His

attitude to her was polite, but briskly businesslike. He still, to her father's

amusement, addressed her as Mrs Drummond.

'You're very formal, the pair of you,' he'd chided jovially. But it hadn't

changed a thing. Natalie was as much a thorn in his flesh as he was in hers.

But she wasn't driving him out of the only home he'd ever known, she

thought bitterly.

At half past twelve, she closed the office and started up towards the house

for lunch. The furniture van had gone, she saw, and Eliot's Porsche was

parked outside the fiat.

As she approached, a girl got out of the passenger seat and stood obviously

waiting to speak to her. A mass of curling blonde hair hung to her shoulders,

framing a full- lipped smiling face. She wore a ribbed wool dress, tightly

cinched at the waist with a leather belt, thus drawing attention to

well-shaped breasts and rounded hips. Her long legs were encased in

high-heeled patent leather boots.

'Hello,' she said. 'I'm Sharon Endicott. Do you think you could show me

where my things are to go? Eliot was going to, but he went up to the house to

speak to Mr Slater, and he hasn't come back.'

Natalie swallowed. She said feebly, 'How do you do. I'm Natalie

Drummond.'

The other girl nodded. 'I thought you would be.' She looked around. 'It's nice

here.'

'Thank you,' Natalie managed feebly. She still couldn't assimilate that Eliot

had actually brought his mistress with him. It seemed so—so blatant,

somehow. And it would go down like a lead balloon with the locals, who