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what to say.'
    'Then say nothing. Not yet. Just think about it, and take as long as you need. I promise I won't pressure you.'
    She flicked the tip of her tongue round dry lips. 'And if I decide—no? Will I find myself out of a job?'
    'Do I seem that vindictive?'
    She reddened. 'No—no, of course not.' She took a deep breath. 'Very well. I'll—consider it.'
    'Good.' His smile was swift, without a trace of mockery this time. 'Now shall I tell them to bring the dessert menu?'
    'No, thanks.' Chessie doubted whether she could force another mouthful of food past her taut throat muscles. She pushed back her chair. 'Just coffee, please. And will you excuse me?'
    The ladies' cloakroom was fortunately deserted. Chessie ran cool water over her wrists in a vain effort to quieten her hammering pulses.
    She didn't look like someone who'd just been poleaxed, she thought, staring at her reflection, although her eyes were enormous, and there was more colour in her cheeks than usual.
    But nor did she look like the future wife of Miles Hunter.
    But then she wasn't really going to be a wife at all, she reminded herself, absently sifting her fingers through the bowl of pot pourri on the vanity unit, and savouring its fragrance.
    Her present duties were being extended—that was all. Her change of status would permit her to sit at the opposite end of that beautiful oak dining table when there were guests, but little more.
    She supposed he would expect her to move out of the flat, and live in the main house again.
    She might even get her old bedroom back—for a while.
     
    Initially. That was the word he'd used. But he'd also said 'ultimately', she thought, her heart beginning to pound un¬evenly. And what then?
    She was shaking all over suddenly, her mind closing off in startled rejection.
    `I can't,' she whispered. `I couldn't. I'll have to tell him here and now that it's impossible.'
    But she'd promised to consider his proposal, and she'd have to pretend to do so at least.
    But she could not marry him. Not in a million years. Not even if Alastair never came back...
    Chessie drew a deep, trembling sigh. There—she'd faced it at last. She'd allowed herself to admit the existence of the dream—the little foolish, groundless hope that had been growing inside her ever since she'd heard Jenny's news.
    And how ironic that Miles should have chosen today of all days to present her with his own plan for her future.
    'It never rains but it pours.' That was what Mrs. Chubb, their current and longest-serving daily help would say.
    Her little laugh turned into a groan. Once she'd told Miles her decision, it would be impossible for her to stay on at Silvertrees. In spite of his assurances, it would make things altogether too awkward.
    There was a temping agency in the nearby town. She would make enquiries there, and then trawl through the letting bureaux for the cheapest possible flat.
    Oh, why had Miles done this to her? she asked herself with something bordering on despair. Things had been fine as they were, and now everything was ruined again. And it wasn't as if he even wanted her.
    Although that was something to be grateful for, at least. Because what would she have done if he had ever made a move on her?
     
    Before she could stop herself, for one startled, stunned moment, she found she was imagining herself in Miles' arms, breathing the musky scent of his skin, feeling his
    mouth move on hers, coaxing her lips apart. His lean, long-fingered hand grazing her skin in a first caress...
    Chessie came gasping back to reality, like a diver reach¬ing the surface of some deep lake. Every inch of her body was tingling. Inside the silk shirt, her small breasts were burning, the nipples hardening helplessly.
    Her eyes were green, like a drowsy cat's, she thought, gazing at herself in horror. Her lips, parted and trembling.
    There was no way she could return to the table like this. Or he would know. And then she would be totally lost.
    Oh, God, she thought