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distance would solve everything. That was what she'd thought.
    That was how she'd reassured herself.
    But how wrong was it possible to be? Joanna thought broodingly, as
    she paced restlessly up and down. Cal Blackstone hadn't just been
    making mischief and trying to alarm her, as she'd secretly hoped and
    prayed. He'd meant every word, and that warning look he'd sent her at
    Martin's funeral had been nothing less than a stark declaration of
    intent.
    And typical of his appallingly tasteless behaviour, she thought with a
    fastidious shudder, then paused, a hysterical bubble of laughter
    welling up inside her.
    Why the hell was she worrying about something as trivial as the way
    he'd treated her as a widow in mourning, when he was now
    threatening her and her entire family with total humiliation and ruin?
    While she'd thought herself safe in the States, Cal Blackstone had
    been busy ensnaring Simon in a web of financial dependency, both
    personal and professional. Then he'd sat back and waited, like the
    spider, for the unsuspecting fly to return...
    But that was defeatist talk, she told herself in self- reproach. After all,
    if the fly struggled hard enough, even the strongest web could be
    broken.
    She was halfway through a dinner she had no interest in eating when
    Simon eventually came in. He looked tired and anxious, and for a
    moment she was tempted to leave him in the peace he so clearly
    needed at least until the morning.
    She let him talk for a while about Fiona and the labour pains which
    had so unaccountably subsided while he ate his meal.
    Then she said quietly, 'Don't you want to know what happened this
    afternoon?'
    He shrugged, his face adopting a faintly martyred expression. 'I
    suppose so. To be honest, Jo, although his letter threw me when it
    arrived, I've been thinking about it while I've been hanging around at
    the nursing home, and, frankly, I don't know what all the fuss is
    about. Things at work are picking up slowly. He'll get his money
    back, and he'll just have to be patient, that's all. I hope you told him
    so.'
    She picked up the coffee-pot and filled two cups with infinite care.
    'I didn't actually get the chance,' she said. 'He didn't come here to talk
    about work. It was your other debts he was concerned with. The ones
    you ran up at the casino, and the race-track.'
    She watched him go white. There was a long, painful silence. Then he
    said very rapidly, 'He told you that, but he had no right. He said there
    was no hurry. He knew I'd pay it all off if he just gave me time.'
    'How?' She looked at Simon's guilty, miserable face and knew that
    the question was unanswerable.
    She nerved herself to go on. 'He—he did mention the Craft Company
    in one context. He talked about the books—the accounts…'
    'What about them?' Simon's gaze was fixed on the polished dining
    table.
    'He said something about an independent audit,' Joanna said, and
    stopped appalled as Simon's cup dropped from his hand, spilling
    coffee everywhere.
    'Can he do that?' The blue eyes were scared, imploring. 'Can he, Jo?'
    'Is there some reason why he shouldn't?' She tried to speak evenly, but
    her voice trembled as she realised she had to face, to come to terms
    with the unthinkable.
    He didn't reply, just picked up his table napkin and began blotting up
    the coffee as if it were the most important thing in the world.
    She said, 'It's true, then. There's money missing, and you're
    responsible.'
    'Whose bloody company is it anyway?' he said, his tone mutinous,
    defensive.
    'Not yours to that extent. Simon, are you crazy?'
    'I had to do something. Fiona was miserable, and needed a break. She
    had her heart set on St Lucia. She's never known what it is to be short
    of cash—she doesn't understand.'
    Joanna closed her eyes for a moment, trying to visualise Fiona's
    reaction to the news that her husband had made them bankrupt and
    homeless. But her imagination balked at the very idea.
    'Go on,' she said, with infinite weariness. 'So