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sensuous brush of his mouth on her lips.
    For an instant she allowed herself to remember—to wonder… Before, shocked, she dragged herself back from the edge.
    She shivered convulsively, wrapping her arms round her body, and felt the sudden pressure of the rose stem against her breast.
    She tore it out of her dress and dropped it on the coffee table as if it was contaminated.
    ‘You’re not the adventurous type,’ she said grimly. ‘Back to the real world, Rosamund.’
    On her way to the stairs she passed the answer-machine, winking furiously.
    ‘Ros?’ Colin’s voice sounded querulous. ‘Where on earth are you? Pick up the phone if you’re there.’
    For a second she hesitated then gently pressed the ‘Delete’ button.
    And went on her way upstairs to bed.

CHAPTER THREE

S AM stood watching Janie’s slim, black-clad figure retreat. He was aware of an overwhelming impulse to go after her—to say or do something that would stop her vanishing.
    But you blew that when you kissed her, you bloody idiot, he told himself savagely as he resumed his seat, signalling to the waiter to bring more coffee.
    He still couldn’t understand why he’d done it. She wasn’t even his type, for God’s sake. And he’d broken a major rule, too.
    But he’d wanted to do something to crack that cool, lady-like demeanour she’d been showing him all evening, he thought with exasperation, and find out what she was really like. Because he was damned sure the past two hours had told him nothing. That this particular encounter had bombed.
    He’d had it too easy up to then, he thought broodingly. The others had been more than ready to tell him everything he wanted to know after just the gentlest of probing.
    That was what loneliness did to you, he told himself without satisfaction. It made you vulnerable to even the most cursory interest.
    But not Janie Craig, however. She’d simply returned the ball to his feet. And, unlike the others, she hadn’t given the impression that the evening mattered. Less still that she hoped it would lead somewhere.
    But perhaps there was something he could salvagefrom the wreck. Something that would enable him to finish with this assignment and do some real work again.
    If he was ever allowed to.
    His mouth twisted bitterly. Six weeks ago he’d been lying in the back of a Jeep, covered in stinking blankets and protected by cartons of food and medical supplies, escaping from a Central African republic and the government troops who’d objected to his coverage of their civil war.
    He’d come back to London, exhausted and sickened by what he’d had to see and report on, but secure in the knowledge of a job well done, knowing that his dispatches from Mzruba had made front-page news, under his photograph and by-line, day after day in the Echo . Expecting his due reward in the shape of the foreign news editorship that he’d been promised before he went.
    His editor Alec Norton had taken one look at him and ordered him away on extended leave.
    ‘Somewhere quiet, boy,’ he’d rumbled, and tossed a card across the desk. ‘This is a place that Mary and I use up in the Yorkshire Dales—the Rowcliffe Inn—soft beds, good food, and peace. I recommend it. Put yourself back together, and then we’ll talk.’
    Sam had gone up to Rowcliffe, a cluster of grey stone houses around a church, and walked and eaten and slept until the nightmares had begun to recede. The weather had been mixed—all four seasons in one day sometimes—but the cold, clean air had driven the stench of blood, disease and death out of his lungs.
    He’d explored the two antique shops that Rowcliffe boasted, eaten home-made curd tart in the small tea-rooms, and visited the surprisingly up-to-date printworks of the local paper, the Rowcliffe Examiner . He’d been beginning to wonder how he could ever tear himself away when a message had come for him from a friend on the Echo newsdesk via the hotel’s fax. ‘Houston, we have a