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disgust at the relief flooding
    over her making her churlish.
    He clicked his tongue reprovingly. 'That's not kind. You don't think I'd make
    a good husband?'

    'I can't possibly tell on so brief an acquaintance.' Meg kept her tone short.
    She knew he was laughing at her, even though his expression was serious,
    almost frowning.
    'But you have an ideal? What qualities should he possess? Would you
    require him to be faithful?'
    Meg twisted the strap of her bag in her fingers. 'I'd want him to love me, and
    only me, as I'd love him,' she said at last. 'I suppose that takes care of most
    things.'
    'It is certainly sweeping,' Jerome said, after another pause. 'And if, in spite of
    that love, another woman intervened—tried to take this paragon away from
    you—what would you do then? Make the sacrifice? Let him go?'
    'No,' she said, fiercely. 'I'd fight for him with everything I had.'
    'You would be ruthless?' his voice probed softly. 'Use any weapon?'
    'Of course.' She hesitated uncertainly. 'Why do you ask me all this?'
    'Because I wish to know, ma petite,'' he said softly. 'It is part of that journey
    of discovery I mentioned—to find that you would fight like a tigress for
    love.'
    Again that odd note in his voice. Meg felt herself shiver. He noticed at once.
    'You are cold?'
    'Oh, no.' She forced a smile. 'Hungry, perhaps.' She thought of her picnic
    lunch, crushed in the car.
    'You've been patient long enough. Now you shall be fed.' He turned the car
    suddenly off the road, and on to a track leading downhill. Meg braced
    herself as the Citroen swayed and jolted over stones and deep ruts.
    'There's actually a restaurant down here?' she gasped. 'I hope there's another
    road out, or people's meals won't stay down for long.'

    'Not a restaurant.' Ahead of them, bathed rose- pink in the sunset, there was a
    straggle of buildings, a chimney from which smoke uncoiled lazily in the
    still evening air.
    'Then where are we?' They seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, she
    realised with alarm. And isolated too. There were no other cars around that
    she could see, so it couldn't be a very popular establishment.
    'This is my house.' The mockery was back, full force. 'The family mas I was
    telling you about.'
    He paused. 'I decided, ma belle, that we would dine at home tonight. Enjoy
    our mutual discoveries in private.' He let that sink in, then added silkily, 'I
    hope you approve?'

CHAPTER FOUR
    THE silence in the car was almost electric. Meg was rigid, her mouth dry.
    How could she have been such a fool? she asked herself with agonised
    disbelief. She should have listened to her misgivings, but instead she'd
    trusted him—because he was the first attractive man to show any interest in
    her, she flayed herself savagely—and now here she was, in some kind of
    ghastly trap.
    This is my house. Here, in the back of beyond, miles from anywhere—and
    she didn't even know where 'anywhere' was.
    '"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the spider to the fly.' And she'd done
    exactly that. A nightmare coming true.
    Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
    She said, keeping her voice cool and even, 'I seem to have lost my appetite.
    Will you take me back to the auberge, please?'
    There was a silence, then Jerome Moncourt shrugged, the dark eyes agleam
    with amusement, as if he knew exactly the thoughts and fears churning
    under her calm exterior.
    'Of course—if that is what you prefer,' he agreed equably. 'But Berthe will
    be desolated if you do not at least taste her cassoulet.'
    'Berthe?' she questioned.'My housekeeper,' he said. 'She and her husband
    Octavien have lived here, looking after the house and the vines, since my
    grandfather left. Now they look after me.' He pointed towards the house.
    'See?'
    A man had emerged from the front entrance, and was standing hands on
    hips, watching them curiously. He was of medium height and stocky build,
    his face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, the inevitable beret pulled on
    over his shock of