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right.
    Did he really believe that was his only motive for going there? She’d shown him the way she felt on a couple of occasions already, hadn’t she? Was he ready for another put-down?
    In the event, he bought two tickets, deciding that whichever train arrived first would be the one he’d take.
    Which meant that half an hour later he was climbing the stairs to Isobel’s apartment, his jacket soaked and his expensive loafers oozing water.
    She’d better be at home, he thought grimly, raising his hand to press the bell. It was a quarter to six. The working day was over. He could only hope she hadn’t arranged to meet someone for a drink, or even dinner.
    It seemed to take forever for Isobel to answer the door. A bit different from when Mrs Lytton-Smythe had called, he brooded irritably. But eventually he heard the bolt being drawn and the key turning in the lock, and presently he was given a glimpse of a bathrobe-clad figure sheltering behind the panels.
    So she had an excuse for her tardiness, he thought, guessing she had just come out of the shower. Her face was flushed and her wet hair was in tangles about her shoulders. Well, what he could see of it anyway. She wasn’t opening the door an inch further.
    For a moment, Isobel just stared at him, too shocked by his appearance to think of anything to say. All she was conscious of was the fact that she was naked under the bathrobe, and tiny drips of water from her wet hair were finding their way inside her collar and down her neck.
    ‘I was in the shower,’ she managed at last, and Alejandro nodded.
    ‘I can see that,’ he said, those curious amber eyes intent upon her. ‘Have I come at a bad time?’
    You think?
    Isobel’s tongue sought her upper lip and she moved her shoulders uncertainly. Was this why she hadn’t made any attempt to return his jacket? Had she suspected—no, hoped —that he might decide to come back?
    ‘I suppose you’ve come for your jacket,’ she said, deciding there was no point in pretending he might have another motive, and Alejandro arched his brows in a way that might have meant anything. He was more formally dressed this afternoon, in an elegant mohair-suit the jacket of which had been sadly impaired by the weather. His hair was almost as wet as hers, a thick, dark mass clinging closely to his scalp.
    ‘You found it?’ he queried softly, and Isobel’s spine quivered at the dark tenor of his voice.
    ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ she rushed on breathlessly. ‘It wasn’t hard to find.’
    Alejandro inclined his head. ‘E claro.’ Of course. He paused. ‘So—you are well, sim ?’
    ‘A little cold is all,’ admitted Isobel ruefully. And then, realising she couldn’t go and get his jacket and leave him standing on the doorstep, particularly as he was obviously soaked to the skin, she murmured, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
    ‘If you are sure?’
    Alejandro wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was doing, but he’d virtually accepted her invitation now.
    ‘Why not?’ Isobel asked, a little offhandedly. And, unlike that other occasion when she’d stepped aside to let him in, she left the door to hurry into the living room. ‘Close the door, will you?’ she called, heading for her bedroom. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
    Alejandro closed the door by leaning back against it. Then, turning, he flicked the key in the lock. For security, he told himself, refusing to admit he had any other reason. Then, as before, he walked into the living room.
    The dark day meant there were lamps burning in three places around the room, two rather attractive table-lamps and a pewter standard-lamp with a huge, fringed shade. She had good taste, he conceded, noticing that the floor had been waxed and that the sofa and chairs had been thoroughly cleaned. Even the cushions bore no imprint of a human body, and the rug that occupied the centre of the floor looked like new.
    A door was open across the room, and curiosity compelled him to find out