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about it in recent times—until a copper-headed girl with green eyes had winkled it out of him last night. And, yes, hethought harshly, it did still hurt, so it was better packed away—along with the whole thorny question of whether he would ever trust a woman again.
    But to get back to Bridget Smith—why had he done it?
    To comfort her? Yes. To prove to her that her one previous experience had been no more than a case of the wrong man? Yes.
    Because he hadn’t been able to help himself?
    Well, yes, he conceded. And that had been due to a combination of those green eyes, that lovely, tender little body, her freshness, and the simplicity and naturalness of her reactions. Yes, all of that. Plus admiration—because she had been brave and humorous, and those little touches of hauteur had secretly amused him. Even her outrageous lies on the subject of the nonexistent Mr Smith had amused him.
    It came to him from nowhere. Perhaps, if he was ever to take a—how to put it?—convenient wife, Bridget Smith was the kind of girl he needed?
    He stared out at the view from the penthouse as he pictured it. Mrs Bridget Beaumont. Then a frown came to his eyes and reality kicked in. He was better off steering clear of any commitment to a woman. Far better off.
    He shrugged and lifted the receiver to organise the retrieval of his Land Rover and the possessions in it. He was about to put the phone down when he thought that there was one thing he could do for Mrs Smith. He could at least facilitate the retrieval of her possessions, if not her car…
    Bridget had had to get a locksmith to let her into her flat, although not much later—after she too had showered and changed out of her coveralls—a knock on her door had revealed yet another SES officer, bearing her overnight bag and her purse, both retrieved from her car.
    She was immensely grateful, even though the news about her car was not good. It was going to have to be taken out of its final resting place piece by piece.
    She closed the door on the officer and bore her purse to the dining room table as if it were precious booty. Once she’d checked everything and found it all there she sat back and looked around, feeling suddenly sandbagged as all the events of the previous twenty-four hours kicked in.
    It was small, but comfortable, her flat: two bedrooms, open-plan lounge, dining room, kitchen and a pleasant veranda, on the second floor of a modern two-storeyed building in a quiet suburb not far from the beach.
    Although she could have owned it—her father had divided his quite substantial estate between her and her mother—she’d decided to keep her nest egg from her father intact in case she ever really needed it.
    She’d put quite some effort into decorating her flat, though. She’d used a cool green for the walls, with a white trim, and cool blues for the furnishings and rugs.
    Cool was the way to go on the sub-tropical Gold Coast. But there were splashes of yellow and pink. Some fluffy yellow chrysanthemums in a pewter flask vase on her dining table—the vase had been a present from her mother, who lived in Indonesia these days.And some pink cushions on her settee, a fuchsia lampshade atop a pretty porcelain lamp.
    There were also some of her own paintings on the walls. Paintings of flowers that flourished in the tropics—orchids, frangipani and hibiscus. Oddly enough, despite her assertion to Adam that she wasn’t much good, she’d entered some of her paintings in a local art show, and the owner of an interior design firm that specialised in decorating motels, rental apartments and offices had bought all six. He’d also told her that he’d take as many more as she could paint, and no matter if she repeated herself.
    So far she hadn’t done any more. She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about her work gracing the walls of impersonal motel bedrooms, rental apartments and offices. Did that make her a real artist, or something much more commercial?
    But now, as she