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Saint’s head as he rose. Instinctively Simon’s arms crossed to block the blow, and he rolled away from his opponent and pulled himself to his feet with an effort that was more mental than physical.
    Demmell was grinning as he waded in for the next round, and Simon returned his smile. The numbness was passing, to be replaced by the invigorating glow of pumping adrenalin.
    Demmell’s arm sped from his shoulder in a straight karate punch to the Saint’s temples. Simon fended it easily with his forearm and replied with a slashing chop to the ribs. Demmell grunted and stepped back, lashing out with a wild kick as he did so. Simon sidestepped and caught the heel of the other’s shoe as it completed its trajectory. For an instant their eyes locked, and for the first time Simon saw fear on his antagonist’s face. The Saint smiled, and pulled.
    Demmell fell heavily, and the Saint, keeping hold of the foot, followed him down, twisting the heel and toe as he went. Demmell’s body jackknifed. His hands reached forward to take the strain off his buckled leg, and the Saint’s fist hit him flush on the side of the face, sending his head banging back to the floor. Simon rested his weight on Demmell’s ribs, forcing the air from his body. He released the foot with a final excruciating wrench, and his forearm descended like a guillotine on the other’s throat.
    Simon grinned into Demmell’s bulging eyes, lifting the pressure of his forearm slightly to allow the passage of a modicum of air. His voice was hard and low.
    “Question time.”
    Perhaps it was something in Demmell’s expression, some spark of hope lighting his eyes, perhaps it was a sixth sense awakening too late to be helpful, but suddenly Simon knew that he hadn’t won. Instinct told him to turn, but there was no time to obey before the blow fell. Constellations spun in front of him, and long before his body collapsed all consciousness had gone and he was free-f alling into oblivion.
    5
    Gradually the darkness lightened.
    The Saint lay perfectly still. Someone appeared to be hammering nails into the base of his skull. He was aware that he was lying on his back, with something soft beneath his head. His senses were stirred by two separate sensations that managed to filter through the haze enveloping his brain. A delicate aroma of expensive perfume was wafting across his face, and his taste buds were approving the smoothness of the champagne that was being gently trickled into his mouth.
    Full consciousness returned, but he delayed opening his eyes for fear that the vision the two sensations conjured up would be dispersed by reality.
    “Bollinger, I believe.”
    “Nothing but the best.” The voice was soft and low, containing the tantalising hint of an accent he could not readily identify. He could feel the lips that framed the words almost caressing his ear. He opened one eye and then the other, to focus on the face above.
    Sapphire blue eyes sparkled from flawless tanned skin, the full lips were slightly parted, and the vision was framed by cascading flaxen hair that caught and trapped the sun like a halo.
    Simon shook his head, closed his eyes and opened them again but the vision remained. He levered himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain in his neck and back.
    “I’ve heard of ministering angels-but champagne?”
    The vision poured out a glass and handed it to Mm. “For the fevered brow, it’s the only thing.”
    The Saint rubbed his neck.
    “How is it for the fevered neck?”
    “Best applied internally.”
    The vision held out her hand and helped Simon to his feet. The Saint’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he felt the strength of the fingers and the bone-hard skin along the edge of the palm, but he was too intent on absorbing the rest of the picture to pay immediate attention to either.
    The vision smoothed the front of a white cotton dress that appeared to consist of little except a neckline and a hem. Nature had been generous with her