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that.”
    â€œI only put it on to make you happy,” she replied ungraciously. “So where is it?” She stared about the light-bathed drive.
    â€œThe Rolls?”
    â€œWhat else? Unless you’ve organised a horse and carriage?”
    â€œIt’s out in the street. There was no room here.” The drive was packed with luxury cars.
    â€œThen you’d better take a peek outside,” she advised. “There’s bound to be a photographer hanging around.”
    He glanced down at her. “So you’re going to slip the jacket off? Is that it? Strut your stuff?”
    â€œI’m going to do no such thing,” she said huffily, trying without success to pull away.
    They were out on the tree-lined avenue and, just as she had predicted, a man with a camera—Tori recognised him as one of the usual gang—began to move swiftly towards them.
    Tori snuggled deeper into Haddo’s jacket. It had become her igloo, shielding her from the chill wind and from plain sight.“Why is it always a man?” she muttered. “I’ve never laid eyes on a woman photographer yet. It’s all men shoving a camera in your face.”
    â€œYou can’t blame them, though. The public devours this sort of stuff.” Haddo’s tone lifted a few notches. It was a voice long used to being obeyed. “No photographs, pal.” He spoke in an unconfrontational way, yet a stone-deaf man would have got the message.
    The photographer gave a conciliatory chuckle. “Who’s the little lady you’re hiding there? It’s not one of the celebs, is it? Or maybe it’s our own little home-grown heiress?”
    â€œJust do what I tell you,” Haddo returned crisply. “Move out of the way, pal.”
    â€œHey!”
    Her head withdrawn like a tortoise, Tori heard the photographer cry out. Agitated, she parted the leather jacket and peered out. The photographer would be no match for Haddo. In fact he was reeling away. Surely Haddo hadn’t hit him?
    â€œI don’t like cameras being shoved in my face,” Haddo was saying, almost pleasantly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to damage it. I’ll give it back to you the moment we’re on our way.”
    The photographer didn’t answer. He simply followed in their wake.
    â€œIt’s astonishing how people pay attention when you’re six-feet-three,” Tori commented as they drove off. The photographer was now busily snapping away at whatever images he could get: the back of her grandmother’s Rolls, the number plate.
    Haddo didn’t answer for a minute or two. Then, “What the hell is happening to you, Tori?” he asked, in a dead serious voice.
    Here it comes—the lecture! She averted her head, staring out of the window at the star-spangled night. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m being kidnapped. Getting photographed goes with the territory, Haddo. Those guys get paid for their pictures. Sometimes it’s quite a lot of money. I don’t need to tell you that.”
    â€œAnd it’s you they seem to want to see.”
    She blushed hotly. “Hey, they won’t want to see me when I’m old.”
    â€œIf you get to be old,” he rasped. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I told you, your grandmother showed me all those newspaper clippings about Morcombe’s driving under the influence. The reason it got so much coverage was you. It can’t go on like this, Tori. I won’t have it. Rushford has been a well-respected name in this country since the early days of settlement.”
    She positively hated him then. “So what do you want me to do? Sing the National Anthem? Isn’t it wonderful the Rushfords are so unquestionably top drawer? You must have hated it when your dad blotted his copybook, running off with that Aleesha, or whatever her name is.”
    â€œI don’t want or need your opinion about that,