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I hope I don't have to inherit for at least ten years, if not twenty.'
    The mockery was wiped away. He said soberly, 'I wouldn't count on it, Lisle.'
    'Don't say that!' She shook her head in violent negation.
    'Like you, I hope he lives for ever,' he said quietly. 'But we need to be realistic.'
    She didn't want realism. She wanted the comfort and reassurance that her grandfather had represented since she was a small child. Without, him, she thought confusedly, she would be totally bereft. If the worst did happen, she would leave London and come to live here in the house she loved. Her inheritance should ensure an adequate income, and she could live within it as long as she wasn't extravagant. She wouldn't really regret the loss of her job in the public relations department at Harlow Bannerman. She hadn't been a roaring success there, although she'd often felt she might have been if she'd only been given a chance. But nothing exacting, nothing that might stretch her mind and get the best out of her had ever come her way. The Bannerman name had always been there like a barrier. They had treated her like an unpredictable toddler, treading warily round her, and feeding her the odd unimportant sweet to keep her quiet. They had written her off as useless before she had even got there, she thought resentfully, and no one had ever bothered to discover what her capabilities were since.
    She thought, without surprise, that it was probably from the PR department that the rumours about her sexual favours to customers had first emanated. She couldn't pretend that she was the flavour of the month with many of her colleagues. In fact, she heard herself described as 'Lady Muck' on more than one occasion when they thought she was out of the way. At the time, it had hurt, but she had made herself laugh it off. She was Lisle Bannerman, and nothing they could say could touch her.
    Only now she knew differently. Mud had been thrown, and some of it had stuck as it had a habit of doing. The kind of things which had been said about her, the kind of implications which had been drawn from her behaviour made her feel unclean, and the thought that some of these vile rumours had found their way back to her grandfather and distressed him was intolerable. Yet he had never uttered one word of warning or reproach, she thought numbly.
    Mrs Peterson's soup was everything she had remembered and more, and the cold roast chicken which followed was accompanied by a salad made infinitely more exciting by a selection of exotic ingredients. Jake asked for cheese to follow, but Lisle succumbed to the blatant temptation of a slice of homemade treacle tart, accompanied by thickly whipped cream.
    Afterwards, Mrs Peterson deposited a tray of coffee in the drawing room and wished them goodnight.
    Lisle poured the coffee, conscious of a feeling of awkwardness. Supper had been easier than she anticipated, with Mrs Peterson bustling in and out, making sure they were enjoying their food, and that they had everything they needed.
    But now they had been left almost pointedly alone, and it made Lisle uneasy.
    Jake on the other hand looked perfectly at ease. He had removed his jacket and slung it over the back of the big leather chesterfield and loosened his tie, and now he was leaning back, waiting for his coffee.
    She handed him his cup, almost slopping it into the saucer in her haste, then got up to add another log to the already adequate fire, and fussily adjust one of the ornaments on the mantelpiece. 
    Jake gave her a bored look. 'Relax, for Pete's sake,' he told her. 'Rape is not imminent.'
    'I never imagined it was,' she snapped, re-seating herself behind the coffee tray, and adding cream to her own cup.
    Jake grinned suddenly. It made him look younger, and even more attractive, and Lisle decided she preferred him scowling. 'Then you should have,' he said. 'After all, we have the perfect set-up— flickering fire, a beautiful girl, and damn all on television.'
    In spite of