The Emerald Sea

THE EMERALD SEA Emily Spenser

The most important thing in Candace Hillyer's life was her career as a marine biologist. Although she lived in California, she had no time for the frivolities of the world of films. Yet here she was, working on a film on Sardinia - and engaged to the director, Anthony Belmont! True, it was only a pretence engagement, but to her consternation, Candace realised that day by day she was falling in love with Anthony. Yet was that such a bad thing? For it might have worked - until she realised just what Anthony was up to....

CHAPTER ONE ONLY a few thin beams of sunshine pierced the late afternoon fog that was so characteristic of this lovely stretch of Monterey Peninsula coastline. The heavy summer mists were the bane of unknowledgeable tourists, but Candace Hillyer loved them, primarily because they kept the beaches un- crowded or even deserted, as they were today, and work was much easier without hordes of people hanging about. With her mind on her work, however, as it usually was, she failed to notice that the fog had also muted the sun's rays to produce a soft and lovely light that danced on the ocean in a glimmering array of iridescent pastels: blues, greens, greys, lavenders. Nor did she observe the rainbow-hued, silver-shot foam lacing the green waves that pounded the small sandy beach and its rocky coves. There was work to be done and no time to waste mooning over what were after all perfectly natural phenomena resulting from the refraction of light passing through the minute water droplets that made up the mist. Nevertheless, wasting time was precisely what she was doing. It had been only three o'clock when she pulled the battered van off the road a few minutes ago, a full forty-five minutes early. It hadn't taken her nearly as long as she'd expected to deliver those marine specimens to Peninsula College's biology department. And now, Candace thought with impatience, she would have to sit and wait until Becky Taylor, her diving partner and fellow laboratory technician at the Pacific Grove Marine Station, showed up. Becky had recently become her room-mate as well, when the two of them had decided to pool their resources and rent an apartment near the lab. The arrangement was working out well, Candace reflected, as she lightly drummed the fingers of one hand against the steering wheel, despite her misgivings about the differences in their temperaments. Becky was as happy-go-lucky as Candace was serious.

Restlessly, Candace glanced again at her watch. It wouldn't take very long to collect the fresh kelp samples needed for one of tomorrow's lab classes. She could easily do it herself and be finished by the time Becky got there, but she'd have to wait. Harry, her boss, didn't get adamant about very much, but solo diving was one thing he would not put up with. Team diving was safer, Candace knew well enough, but having a partner hadn't helped her father in the slightest; not on his last dive, anyway, she couldn't help thinking. Thinking . . . Sometimes Candace wondered if the reason she absorbed herself in her work every minute of the day was to avoid thinking. She had disliked inactivity for as long as she could remember, but since her father's death two years ago she had downright detested it. And here she was, doing exactly nothing. Well, at least she could get herself ready for work while she was waiting. She slipped into the back of the van and stripped down to her bikini, then pulled on her two-piece black rubber wetsuit. It only took a minute to plait her thick, shoulder-length auburn hair into the pigtail that would keep it out of her eyes. She worked as slowly as she could, but she still had almost half an hour to wait by the time she had gathered together the rest of her scuba diving gear and checked out the tank. All right then, she might as well have a look at the tide pools while waiting. She slipped her tennis shoes back on and grabbed an empty specimen container and a small strainer. The tide was beginning to flood in, but most of the rocky promontory that she decided to explore was still exposed. Clambering halfway out, she crouched quietly near a promising-looking pool. It was alive with brilliantly-coloured sea anemones clinging firmly to the rocky surface, hermit crabs scrambling erratically over everything in their path, and tiny fishes—mostly sculpins—darting about in search of their microscopic dinners. She was about to use the strainer to scoop up a

fuzzy flatworm for a closer look when she heard a seal barking on the rocks somewhere in front of her. It wasn't an unusual sound in this area—the waters off the Monterey Peninsula abounded in seals, sea-lions, and otters—but Candace thought she detected a quaver of distress in the faint cry. Setting down the plastic container and strainer, she climbed nimbly over the rough, uneven rocks to investigate. It didn't take her long to find it. It was a northern fur seal, just a pup, about two feet long, and since it was a species that didn't touch land in northern California unless it was sick or injured, it was definitely in trouble. Just as she spotted it a wave crested over the low rocky shelf it was lying on. The water swirled over the small form, flopping it briefly over on its side and bringing forth another weak, plaintive yelp. Quickly Candace gauged the size and speed of the waves. It wouldn't take long for the little seal to be battered against the rocks, she knew, but if she acted quickly, she could rescue it between waves. Timing her move, she waited until a wave had just begun to ebb, then scrambled down on to the sloping, rocky shelf. The footing was slimy with algae, so that it took her longer than she had thought it would to reach the little animal. She realised long before she got to it that she wouldn't make it off the shelf before the next wave. Thank goodness for the protection her wetsuit provided, Candace thought as she dropped down prone on the sharp-edged mussels and goose barnacles attached to much of the ledge, gathered the wet and furry little seal into her arms, and somehow found a handhold among the rocky projections. She tightened her grip as the wave half washed over both of them, and she felt the frightening, always surprising force of the retreating water tug at her. The little animal, too weakened to feel fear, but grateful for the protection of the warm, black thing that had plunked itself down beside it, weakly snuggled as close as it could.

'Okay, little fellow, let's go,' Candace murmured soothingly, as the wave receded and she tucked the animal more firmly into her. She was scrambling to her knees and just about to make a dash for it when her left foot slipped on a patch of algae. Losing her balance, she fell forward, scraping the palm of her hand on the goose barnacles when she instinctively reached out to break her fall. 'Darn!' she cried involuntarily, glancing quickly at her hand. Fortunately it was more scraped than cut, and, thank goodness, she hadn't dropped the little seal. Then, hearing the water surge powerfully behind her, she concentrated on nothing but holding on. This wave was ominously higher, a dull green wall that roared blindingly over her in a dizzying, choking rush. Closing her eyes tightly against the salt sting and holding her breath for what seemed like a very long time, she was conscious of an unaccustomed and as yet mild pang of fear. It was a rough sea, and this was a little more than she had bargained for. Nevertheless, she had the seal, and now it was just a question of going back the way she'd come. As the water receded and sank with a final pull at her, she prepared to rise. And couldn't. It took her a frightened second to realise that when she had fallen, her left foot had slipped down into a crevice between the edge of the shelf and a large, ragged boulder tilted against it. And it was wedged tightly in. 'Now don't panic,' she told herself sternly as she was doused again. It was only the tennis shoe that was caught; she simply had to reach down, untie the laces, and slip her foot out. The problem was that she had only two hands and both of them were occupied. The tide was coming in fast now, and the waves were close together and more than strong enough to sweep the seal off if she let go of it. For that matter, she wasn't terribly keen on losing her own hold on the rock.

In a few more minutes, though, there wasn't going to be any choice; she would have to let go of the seal. Trying to harden her heart towards the trembling, furry creature nestled so trustingly under her arm, Candace scanned the beach to see if there were any help in sight. For once she wished it was alive with sunbathers, noisy families, curious children—anyone. But of course it was deserted; nothing but sand, rocks, and pearly wispy fog. Again she was submerged, this time by a massive, rolling swell that stung her eyes and left her sputtering. Even the tiny seal coughed and snuffled, and moved weakly in her arms. The tide was coming in very fast now; there was just no way to keep the little creature. She took a deep breath, steeled herself . . . And then she saw him, a tall, lean figure emerging ghost-like from a trailing shroud of fog a hundred yards down the beach, walking slowly in her direction. It seemed to take an eternity for him to hear her shouts and break into a run, but when he finally did, it was only an astonishingly few seconds before she opened her eyes after another wave to see a pair of angry, deep brown eyes looking down at her from the rocks above. 'You stupid little fool!' he shouted in a furious baritone, clambering down nearer. 'What the hell are you doing down there?' 'My foot's caught,' was all she managed to say before an oncoming wave engulfed her. As soon as it began to ebb, he jumped the final few feet to her. 'Which one?' he asked roughly. 'The left, but I can free it myself if you'll just take the seal.' 'The what—' he started to say when he, too, had to steady himself against the rock to withstand the next big wave. In the next brief lull

between waves, the man wordlessly snatched up the seal, his big hands making it seem smaller than it was, and placed it securely in a cleft just over his head, safely above the high-water line. Candace reached down with her now-free hand to fumble at her shoelace, but her fingers, numbed from the icy water, seemed to work in slow motion. She managed to loosen the lace enough to slip her foot out and then free the shoe just as he turned again to her. Shaking with fatigue and cold, she gratefully took his proffered, strong hand and let him half pull her up off the ledge and out of the surf. 'Are you all right?' he asked tersely. His tanned face was darkened ominously with anger. 'I... I think so,' she stammered, unnerved by the censure in his tone. 'Thank you,' she added lamely, realising that without thinking she had endangered his life, too, and he had every right to be furious with her. 'What an incredibly foolhardy tiling to do!' he grated. 'Don't you know kids get washed off these rocks and drowned every year? You're a danger to yourself, not to mention passersby who have to risk their own necks trying to rescue you. I have half a mind to call up your parents and tell them to keep you on a leash,' he added disagreeably, his brown eyes flickering up and down, taking in the make-up- free face, pigtail, and slight figure. Candace flushed, her creamy skin filling with colour and her green eyes turning stormy. 4I guess it was a rather foolish thing in retrospect, Mr . . .' 'Belmont.' '. . . Mr Belmont, and I apologise for dragging you into the situation, but you don't have to be insulting,' she flashed. 'And for your information, I'm not a child. Nor are my parents living!'

A shadow passed briefly over her face. The words had just popped out—and so darn melodramatically at that; she wished she could take them back. This man made her uncomfortable and nervous, and she just wanted to run away from him, not go into a conversation about her private life. Besides, people were always commenting that in her wetsuit and with her hair in a pigtail she looked all of about fifteen. It had never bothered her before. Why now? Disconcerted by the unfamiliar and puzzling effect he was having on her, she averted her eyes and sat down abruptly to put her shoe back on. It was a struggle to get the wet canvas on her foot, and the scrape on her hand, which was beginning to sting now that the icy numbness was wearing off, didn't make it any easier. 'Let me see your hand,' he snapped, noticing her favour it, then reached down and took it before she had a chance to say a word. 'It's nothing,' she said coldly, trying to hide the tremor that ran through her at his touch. 'I slipped. If I hadn't I wouldn't have needed any help.' 'It's a nasty scrape. We'll need to put something on it,' he said, examining the fiery-red welt and broken skin. Bristling at his arrogant tone, she stood up. 'I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Mr Belmont. Thank you for your help, and goodbye.' Without waiting for him to reply, she turned to the cleft in which he had put the seal. The exhausted little animal was lying quietly, its eyes enormous, as if entranced by the conversation. As she reached in to pick it up a strong hand on her arm stopped her. 'I'll take it,' he said brusquely, in a tone that brooked no argument. Then, taking off his expensive blue sports jacket, he gently wrapped the seal in it and cradled it in his arm. His movements were confident

but gentle, as if he'd been handling sick animals all his life. As she watched him, Candace realised her pulse was beating erratically. That puzzled her; was she really that fatigued and cold? 'You'll ruin your jacket,' she said in gently malicious tones, as she caught a glimpse of the designer label. He gave her a cold look of appraisal, and Candace got the distinct impression he didn't like what he saw. To be honest she couldn't blame him. Inexplicably, she was being rude, obnoxious, ungrateful—all totally out of character; at least she hoped so. 'It's already ruined,' he said flatly. So were his grey trousers, Candace noted guiltily. There was a rent at one knee. 'How did you know this seal even needed rescuing, anyway?' he asked, as they made their way back to Candace's van. 'Because it's a northern fur seal,' she answered in frozen tones. Somehow she felt an overwhelming need to cling to her icy and impertinent facade. 'So?' 'They normally stay between ten and a hundred miles offshore here,' she answered as they reached her vehicle. She hoped her non-verbal message was equally clear: Thank you very much, but will you please go away and leave me alone? He smiled, a slow sardonic smile; he got the message, all right, and it didn't abash him in the least. There was ruthlessness as well as mockery in the smile, and she shivered a little as she sensed that he would go exactly when he decided to, not before. And nothing she could say or do would have the slightest effect on him.

A truck pulled up on the sandy shoulder of the road near them, and to her immense relief she saw it was one from the marine station. Never had the sight of Becky's cheerful pixie face been so welcome. 'Candace, what happened?' asked Becky with concern, hopping out of the driver's seat and seeing the man Belmont's sodden condition and his expensively-wrapped little bundle. Candace explained while they pulled out a small portable animal carry-all from the truck and gently placed the seal in it. 'I think Candace is understating her experience,' Belmont said smoothly when she had flashed her highly-abbreviated account 'But since she's graciously offered to drive me home so I can change into some dry clothes,' he added with just a hint of sarcasm, 'I'll see to it that she gets some antiseptic on her hand and gets a good hot drink inside her.' 'Good idea,' Becky agreed instantly, eyeing him with undisguised interest. Then, tearing her gaze away from his face, she addressed Candace: 'I'll drive this little fellow back to the station and get Dr Dresner to take a look at him. Ted can come back here with me for the kelp specimens.' 'That really won't be necessary,' Candace said firmly. Inside she was fuming both at herself and Belmont. She hadn't even given a thought to the fact the man must be freezing. How callous could she be? Of course she should have offered to drive him home. But the smooth way he had engineered things made her blood boil. 'It won't take me long to drive Mr Belmont home. I'll be back here before you are.' 'Not if you know what's good for you,' said Belmont. Amusement lurked in his deep brown eyes. He had her netted like a moth he had decided to take home and study, and he was enjoying her discomfort.

'He's right, Candace,' Becky interjected. 'Anyway, Harry would have catfits if you dived with an injury, no matter how slight. You know how he is.' Candace found herself agreeing with an ill grace that she barely managed to hide until Becky left. After sliding the van's side door closed with a needless bang, she had started to move around the vehicle towards the driver's side when, with effortless ease, Belmont blocked her way. 'I'm driving. Where are the keys?' 'Under the floor mat,' she said through clenched teeth, deciding argument was useless, and the fastest way to get rid of him was to go along until they got to his house. Then she'd put her foot down about joining him for a drink. In sullen silence she got in on the passenger's side. When he turned from Sunset Drive on to the luxurious Seventeen Mile Drive, her suspicion that he was wealthy was confirmed. The guard at the entrance gate recognised him instantly and waved him on respectfully, but with a joke about his 'new car'. The Seventeen Mile Drive was a winding road through a vast private park of shoreline and forest, famous for its beauty and its golf courses—six in all, including the world-renowned Pebble Beach. A few hundred exclusive residences were tucked into secluded spots and, as the saying went, if you had to ask how much one sold for, you couldn't afford it. Although Candace had occasionally read about some resident or other—they often appeared in newspaper gossip or social columns—she had never met one. And if they all were as arrogant as this one, she hoped she'd never meet another! Belmont gave her a brief glance as he pulled away from the gate. 'Are you always so friendly?' he asked, his smile slightly mocking.

'Do we have much farther to go?' she asked, ignoring the question. 'Anxious to get rid of me, aren't you?' 'That's very perceptive of you, Mr Belmont.' 'Anthony,' he said, as he pulled off the road into a long, winding driveway. 'You know, I would have known your parents were dead even if you hadn't told me. You have the manners of a stray alley kitten.' With a sideways glance at her, he brought the van to a stop. What was it about this slip of a girl that tugged at his heartstrings? Candace felt the colour rise on her cheeks. Normally she had beautiful manners; her father had seen to that. But this sardonic, patronising man had a most irritating way of bringing out the worst in her. Perhaps retreat was the best solution. And now was the time for it. He had slid out of the car and was coming around to open her door when he saw her begin to move across to the driver's seat. Before she realised what he was doing, he returned, reached through the window for the ignition key and pocketed it. 'You might as well come in gracefully,' he said, then suddenly frowned. 'I'm not about to make a pass, if that's what you're worried about. Even if you weren't an unappetising shade of blue, I never make advances to ladies armed with lethal weapons.' Candace looked at him blankly. She hadn't even thought about his motivation for dragging her to his home, but it certainly wouldn't be for that reason. He was the kind of man women fell for in droves, and he probably had a covey of them at his beck and call. His motives were undoubtedly disinterested ... as disinterested as if he were indeed taking home a stray alley kitten. And a weapon? It took her a moment to realise what he was talking about. To her, the sheathed six-inch stainless steel knife strapped to her thigh was just part of her diver's

equipment. It was needed to cut herself free should she become entangled in lines, ropes, kelp, or a hundred other underwater traps. The picture of herself—all of five feet four— attempting to use the knife as an offensive weapon against this six-foot-plus, broad-shouldered, muscular male was ludicrous. At the thought an irrepressible smile bubbled to the surface and suddenly snapped the tension between them. 'I guess I've been acting a bit ridiculous,' she confessed, making a little grimace. 'And I really haven't properly thanked you for coming to my rescue.' Anthony Belmont gave her a wry grin. 'Let's save that until we're both dried out. Bring in a change of clothes if you don't want to sit around in that wetsuit.' The elegance of the house before her was more than a little intimidating. Half hidden by wind- sculptured Monterey pines, built of yellow, honeyed sandstone and crowned by a steeply pitched roof of gleaming slate, its substantial bulk graced a gently rising knoll of incredibly lush green lawn. But the exterior, impressive as it was, did little to prepare Candace for the dazzling scene when he led her a few steps down into the sunken living room just off the massive entryway. She caught her breath. The west wall of the room was solid glass, framing a vista that might have been a painted picture, so perfect was it. She could see the whole of Carmel Bay from here, with Point Lobos in the distance to the south and the smooth, emerald-coloured grass of the Pebble Beach greens to the north. In the foreground, iceplant with tufted masses of magenta flowers so brilliant they hurt her eyes covered the sand dunes that rolled from the house down to the sparkling white crescent of Carmel beach.

She was so enraptured by the scene that she didn't realise a third person had entered the room until Anthony Belmont spoke. 'Charles, would you ask Mrs Charles to make some coffee, and then bring me the first-aid kit.' Noticing the bland, entirely noncommittal way the manservant took in Anthony Belmont's wet and disordered appearance, as well as the presence of a half-drowned female dripping sea water on the thick, sand-coloured carpet, Candace suspected that extraordinary occurrences were commonplace in the Belmont household. Either that or he had very well trained servants. Who was Anthony Belmont, anyway, she wondered, and what did he do for a living? She watched wordlessly as the object of her interest poured a dollop of spirits into each of two small glasses at the sleek glass-and- chrome bar in the corner. Even wet and dishevelled, he was attractive. His strong profile, granite jaw, and finely modelled mouth combined with thick brown, unruly hair, now plastered into wet ringlets against his broad forehead, to give him a classical handsomeness. He was really almost too attractive, she decided, which meant that he was no doubt absurdly vain and probably insufferably arrogant to boot, especially towards women. She also quite automatically disliked his clothes, obviously tailor-made and sinfully expensive—which perfectly fit his tall, lean frame despite the fact they were sodden with sea water. No, he was definitely not the sort of man she approved of. So said one part of her mind, the organised, logical part that had quickly filed him in a pigeonhole labelled 'wealthy, frivolous, superficial.' But another part of her mind, not so logical, not so organised, was acutely aware of this man's physical presence. And it wasn't only her mind; every cell of her body seemed to be tingling in a most unusual way as Anthony Belmont looked up and his glance

pierced her slate-green eyes and set her heart thumping and her knees trembling. He motioned for her to join him. Meekly she accepted the offered glass, then sipped the amber liquid, gasping and choking as it burned a fiery path down her throat. brandy does tend to do that to the novice drinker,' he said with a chuckle, 'but it's warming.' 'Just because I happened to cough is no reason to assume I'm an inexperienced drinker,' she bristled when she could speak again. Actually she was, of course, but she resented the way this imperious man made her feel like a child with every word he said. He studied her, one eyebrow raised, as he drank from his own glass. 'A man can tell just by looking at you, little one, that drinking is just one of the things you've no experience with.' Candace's cheeks grew hot, and her cooling temper fizzled towards a boil again, but before she had a chance to retort, Charles entered with the first-aid kit. Gritting her teeth to prevent herself from telling the presumptuous, impertinent Anthony Belmont exactly what she thought of him, she submitted to their combined treatment of her hand. The scrape was a little worse than she thought it was, and she winced as Anthony Belmont washed it with an antiseptic soap in the bar's small sink. 'The antiseptic cream will make it feel better,' he explained, as he softly blotted her palm dry with a clean white towel. Candace would have died rather than admit it, but she was much more conscious of his lean, strong hands—one cradling hers while the other applied ointment—than she was of her wound. Gently he placed a small pad, which Charles had smeared with additional cream, over her

palm, then ran a length of cotton gauze a few times around her hand and secured it with tape. When it was finished, she said, 'Very professional. Thank you,' as graciously as she could under the circumstances. She glanced at him. 'Are you by any chance a doctor?' she asked, remembering how easily he had also handled the seal.'You missed by a mile,' he answered, his voice amused. 'I'm a movie director.' 'Oh,' Candace responded flatly. She realised she had been hoping he was a surgeon, a psychiatrist, something like that. But why should she be disappointed? What was it to her? He laughed. 'Now what makes me think you don't approve of Hollywood?' Not waiting for her answer, and not seeming to care what it might be, he added, 'Charles will show you to a bathroom. Feel free to take as long as you like.' A hot shower did a great deal to restore her equilibrium, and she spent a long time under the steaming water. There was a sizeable assortment of bath aids in a white wicker basket, and on impulse Candace decided to shampoo her hair, even if it was awkward with the use of only one hand. Later, as she was towelling herself dry, her eyes couldn't help but be drawn to her reflection in the wall mirror. Slender and small-breasted, she had an oval, pretty face, thick, luxurious auburn hair, and clear, frank eyes that seemed to change from grey to green depending on her mood. Was it really so improbable that she might attract a man like Anthony Belmont? What a foolish thought, she chided, turning abruptly away from the mirror and quickly pulling on her white jeans and striped blue T-shirt. Why would she even want to attract anyone from his frivolous, tinselled world?

Using the hand-held hair dryer on the sink countertop, she quickly blow-dried her hair until it fell thick and lustrous about her shoulders. Although she most assuredly did not want to interest him it was reassuring to look more mature and attractive again. She left her things, organised and folded in a neat pile, and sought out her host. A quick and sincere thank you to him and she'd be on her way. Anthony Belmont was sitting in one of the leather swivel chairs in front of the fire, with his feet comfortably up on a matching hassock. He, too, had bathed and had changed into a bulky, leaf- green turtleneck sweater and fawn-coloured corduroy slacks. Really, he was extraordinarily handsome. Candace couldn't help but be struck again by his careless, self-assured elegance. Nor could she control the accelerating heartbeat that his mere presence seemed to create, darn him. He rose when he saw her, obviously surprised at the change in her appearance. His brown eyes travelled over the delicate lines of her face, then lingered for an instant on her innocently sensuous lips. The stray waif that he had practically been ready to adopt had materialized into someone quite different. Disturbed, he reached for something noncommittal to say. 'How's your hand?' 'It will be fine in a few days.' 'Good,' he said, sitting down again and motioning her to a chair. He gestured at the low table between them. On it sat a loaded silver tray. 'My housekeeper assumed we'd be hungry.' 'I am, actually,' Candace confessed politely, watching him pour the coffee. 'And I do want to thank you for coming to the rescue.'

'How long have you been diving?' he asked, as they dug into thick roast beef sandwiches made with heavenly, fresh San Francisco sourdough bread spread with pungent horseradish dressing. 'Since I was about eight, I guess. My mother had died and my father was a diver. It was his recreation as well as his profession, and he started to take me snorkelling for fun on the weekends.' She smiled a little wistfully; those had been the happiest times of her life. 'I took to it like the proverbial fish takes to water. When I got older he taught me to scuba- dive.' Anthony Belmont cocked an eyebrow, his eyes fixed intently on hers. 'And did he approve of you becoming a professional diver yourself? It must be more risky than most jobs.' It isn't, really, if you know what you're doing.' She looked self-consciously away. 'I'm sure he would have approved if he'd known, but I took the job after. . . after he was killed/ 'Car accident?' he asked gently. She glanced back at him, and then away again. 'No ... he was killed on the job ... a shark attack,' she answered slowly, her voice tense. His eyes widened in astonishment. 'Do you mean to tell me you still dive after something like that happened to your father?* She hadn't dived for weeks after the accident, of course, and the first dive had been terrifying. But she didn't want to talk about that any more than she wanted to talk about any aspect of her father's death. So she deflected his interest in the way she had others'. 'Don't you still drive a car?' she countered.

'People get killed in them every day. Almost everyone knows someone who's died in one, but people still drive. Accidents happen, and one just has to keep going.' The words were spoken calmly but he sensed her distress and deftly turned the conversation aside. 'Do you work full-time at the lab?' 'Yes,' she answered, accepting another cup of coffee, 'and I take evening classes in marine biology at Peninsula College.' 'And what do you do for fun?' Candace felt that it was a silly question, but he had rescued her from a difficult situation and she could afford to humour him. 'In my spare time I'm helping out on a survey of seal populations between Afio Nuevo and the Big Sur,' she replied, her voice warming with enthusiasm, as she went on to describe her last field trip. When they finished the last of the coffee in the pot, she put her cup down with the realisation that she had enjoyed the quiet hour they had been conversing. 'I really do have to go,' she said, feeling a distinct tinge of regret. He had been a good listener. 'I hope I haven't inconvenienced you too much.' 'Actually it was rather fortuitous,' he said suavely, 'since it so happens there's a small favour you could do for me.' Candace stiffened. He wanted something after all. 'What kind of favour?' Anthony Belmont casually put down his empty cup. 'Next week I start filming a movie, and I'm unexpectedly minus a stuntwoman for some of the underwater scenes. It would just be for a few weeks, and you'd fill the bill exactly.'

It was certainly the most startling job offer of her life, but she didn't have to think about it even for a moment. 'I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be possible,' she said with a shake of her head and a smile. I'm afraid I have to work for a living.' But even if I didn't, she wanted to add, I wouldn't be interested. The tawdry, shallow world of movie-making was something she wanted nothing to do with. Her thoughts must have been reflected in her eyes, because his own hardened and he smiled sardonically. 'I suspect you have vacation time piled up. In fact, I'm sure of it; I doubt if you know the meaning of the word "recreation"— I suggest you look it up some time—and your night classes won't start again until September, right? So the real reason is that you're just too serious for such frivolity.' His tone was mocking, but then he threw her a carefully appealing smile. 'I'm only asking you to help out for three or four weeks, you know, not to join the profession. You'll be paid a salary and expenses, of course.' 'Surely there must be other female scuba-divers who would jump at the chance,' she said placatingly. She didn't want to antagonise him, although she was irrationally angry with him for having learned so much about her in so short a timet What was there to be angry about? She had told it all to him herself, even if she hadn't realised she'd been doing it. She realised suddenly that he would be a dangerous man to cross. He had a quick, astute mind combined with an easy and relaxed manner— a powerful combination when it came to getting what he wanted from people. 'In fact/ she said, 'I personally know a few I could call.' 'Are they carbon copies of you?' Candace stared blankly. 'The diver needs to resemble the star, which you do. Not, of course, that you're anywhere near as beautiful,' he added easily, giving her a

cool, steady look of appraisal, 'but you'll only be her stand-in underwater. So you'll be wearing a face mask, and it won't matter.' She flushed a little, absurdly hurt, and the hurt turned quickly to anger. 'Then I guess you have a problem, Mr Belmont,' she said curtly, preparing to rise, 'because I have no intention of interrupting my life to play-act in some silly movie." He shrugged and his hand moved in a careless, dismissive gesture. 'I'm sorry you feel that way, because I really wasn't looking forward to suing you.'

CHAPTER TWO CANDACE dropped back down in her chair and stared at Anthony Belmont, her eyes wide with disbelief. 'Suing me . . . Whatever for?' she asked stiffly. 'For damage to my clothes and personal effects,' he said casually, leaning back in his chair and placing his feet on the hassock. Forearms resting on the chair arms, hands idly laced on his chest, feet crossed, utterly at his ease, lie let his eyes, full of sardonic amusement, leisurely play over her rigid figure. He was most certainly enjoying himself. Candace toyed briefly with the idea of throwing something. . . anything. . .at the gloating man in front of her. But perhaps he was just joking. He had to be. 'I assure you,' he said, continuing after a pause during which she'd been unable to find words, 'if I'd known it was only a seal I was rescuing and not a human being, I'd at least have taken off my jacket and my watch.' 'Are you serious?' she finally managed. 'Oh, dead serious,' he answered with a maddening smile. 'Unless, of course, you change your mind about accepting my offer of temporary employment.' He hesitated for a brief moment, his clear brown eyes mocking. 'I'll consider—consider, mind you—letting you off the hook if your boss denies you a leave of absence, but otherwise—' He shrugged eloquently and left the unspoken threat hanging in the air. 'That's blackmail!' she spluttered, trembling with rage. 'But I'm not falling for it. And you don't have to sue me, because I'll gladly pay just to see the last of you. . . you—' 'Careful now,' he admonished, grinning. 'Remember you're a lady. And if that's the way you want it, it's fine with me.' He raised his eyes to the ceiling as if he were making a mental calculation. 'Let's see,' he

drawled, 'at a hundred dollars a month, it will only take you about sixteen years—' 'Sixteen years!' she cried out, shocked. 'Yes, sixteen years.' He pulled a slim gold wrist- watch out of his pocket and tossed it to her. He must have scraped it against a rock. A deep furrow marred the glass face, and the gold case had been badly dented. Not to mention the fact that the hands had stopped and she could see beads of seawater inside. It was obviously ruined beyond repair. 'I don't remember exactly what it cost, but I think Julian Polo solid gold watches sell for somewhere in the neighbourhood of fourteen to fifteen thousand dollars.' He smiled cheerfully. 'Then there's the suit.' White-lipped with fury, but knowing she was defeated, Candace stood up. 'You win,' she said haughtily. 'Exactly when do you want me to show up for your lousy movie? If I can get a leave of absence from work.' Anthony Belmont feigned a wince at the 'lousy'. 'My casting supervisor will be in touch with you onthe logistics. Getting you a temporary membership in the union, a passport, and a work permit on such short notice might be a bit of a problem, but I'm sure he'll work something out.' 'Passport!' 'Yes, didn't I mention we'd be filming on location?' He gave her a look of veiled humour. 'How careless of me. Sardinia is nice this time of year; you'll love it.'

The sight of Becky uncharacteristically surrounded by a haphazard profusion of film and gossip magazines greeted Candace when she entered the apartment. 'Finally you're home!' Becky squealed, her hazel eyes bright with excitement. 'Did Anthony Belmont really take you home for a drink?' 'Where on earth did you get those things?' asked Candace, ignoring Becky's question. She eyed tfce jumble of magazines. Not to her surprise, several were opened to pictures of Anthony Belmont, arm-in-arm with an assortment of gorgeous females—never the same one twice. 'From Mrs Ferber downstairs—she's a film buff. I thought the name Anthony Belmont sounded familiar, and he certainly looked like somebody important. Even dripping wet,' Becky added laughingly, 'so after work I decided to do some research about that devastatingly attractive man you were out hobnobbing with. I found out he's not only a famous movie director, but he's also supposed to be one of the world's ten most eligible bachelors!' 'Well, if the other nine are anything like him, you're welcome to them all,' replied Candace, carrying her wetsuit into the kitchen. She turned on the cold water tap and began to rinse it. Salt left too long on rubber would corrode it. 'And don't you know,' she shouted over her shoulder, 'half of what's written in those magazines is exaggerated, if not downright fabricated?' 'Candace!' Becky wailed dramatically, following her into the kitchen. 'Stop talking about unimportant things and tell me what happened. The suspense is killing me!' She perched on the kitchen stool and the questions tumbled out. 'What did he say? What did he do? Where does he live? What's he like? What—'

'He lives on Seventeen Mile Drive,' said Candace. 'Naturally.' Then, glowering, she added, 'And he's a mean, rotten, contemptible, manipulative rat!' 'Oh, well,' sighed Becky, 'nobody's perfect.' Then she grinned impishly. 'Anyway, the competition for a man like that would be a bit stiff.' Eyeing her room-mate speculatively, she asked, 'Did he make a pass?' Candace frowned. 'I wish that's all he'd done,' she answered, and filled Becky in on what had happened. 'I can't believe my ears, Candace Hillyer!' Becky exclaimed. 'I'd have said yes before he got all the words out.' She shook her glossy brown curls in disbelief. 'Here's the opportunity of a lifetime to travel, to rub shoulders with famous people, to lie around in the sun, to party, to relax—we won't even mention the opportunity to flirt with Anthony Belmont, of all people—and you want to get out of it!' She rolled her eyes heavenwards. 'I always knew you took life too seriously, but I didn't think you were nuts!' 'Just because I don't want to waste my time playing stupid games in front of a camera it doesn't mean I'm nuts,' said Candace in exasperation. 'I admit, the travel part appealed to me, but the rest of it—ugh, forget it!' Arranging her wetsuit on a hanger, she opened the back door and hung it to dry on a hook near Becky's. She shut the door and added firmly, 'The first thing I'm going to do in the morning is convince Harry that he won't be doing me a favour by giving me the time off.' But Candace had barely arrived at work the next day before she discovered she had greatly underestimated Anthony Belmont's efficiency. Her supervisor, a small, round man with an unfailingly jovial, absentminded air, dropped by her crowded cubbyhole of an

office at two minutes past eight. He and her father had been long-time friends, and ever since Reid Hillyer's death Candace knew Harry had tried to keep a friendly eye on her. 'I think that business about The Emerald Sea is just great,' he said, beaming. 'It's about time you had a holiday.' Candace stared at him confusedly. 'The emerald what?' Harry looked at her with an odd expression. 'The Emerald Sea—the movie that friend of yours is making.' 'What? You know about that already?' She was aghast. That infuriating, presumptuous man must have called her boss the moment she'd left his house! Harry's next words confirmed it. 'That movie director of yours doesn't let the grass grow under his feet,' he chuckled. 'He tried to call me three times yesterday afternoon, and didn't stop till he got me.' 'He's not my movie director,' said Candace, grimacing. 'He's a movie director, and you could hardly call us friends/ Her stomach knotted in apprehension. 'You didn't tell him I could have the time off, did you?' 'Of course I did. I think it's a great idea—it will do you a world of good.' His manner suddenly turned paternal. 'But you be careful you don't get involved with this guy,' he admonished. 'You're too serious by half, but a Hollywood celebrity is a dangerous sort of man to kick up your heels with. You'd only get hurt.' 'Harry,' she retorted, 'Anthony Belmont's offering me a job as a stuntwoman, not as a playmate.' Not that 'offering' was the right word, but why quibble at this point? 'Besides, I'm not the slightest bit attracted to him.'

And I'm not too serious, she wanted to add as well, but Harry had patted her affectionately on the shoulder and ambled off, his mind already on something else. Or was she too serious? she wondered, staring unseeingly after him. In the space of a mere sixteen hours, three very different people— an accidental acquaintance, a good friend, and aboss who'd known her ail her life—had said she was. Could they have a point? Her father had said so too. He used to tell her she was a workaholic. 'You're going to miss a lot in life if you don't slow down, relax, and enjoy yourself, young lady,' he would say. Then he would smile and add, 'Starting right now.' And he would drag Candace away from her homework and off to a movie, or to the beach to dive just for fun, or simply to some little restaurant for a leisurely meal. Odd behaviour for a parent, Candace used to think in exasperation. Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? 'You're going to turn into a stick-in-the-mud, child,' he would say when she had asked him that once. He had looked at her with love gleaming in his eyes. 'And you're too pretty for that. And life's too short.' Too short. . . exactly, thought Candace, closing her eyes and feeling the hot, salt sting of tears. It had already been two years since the terrible death of her father in the prime of his life, and even now she could barely stand to think about him. And she missed those lovely, playful outings more than she thought possible. Forcibly, she shrugged off the painful memories and tried to repress the nagging fear that she had indeed become a stick-in-the-mud at the ripe old age of twenty. Needing support and sympathy, she walked down the corridor to the zoology lab to seek out the one person who she felt might provide it.

Greg Coleman, a red-haired, lanky young man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, was labelling a stack of microscope slides with the same earnest concentration he gave to everything he did. As usual, his clothes looked as if he'd found them lying on the beach after an all-night rainstorm. Candace couldn't actually say that she found his ungroomed appearance attractive, but she approved heartily of his indifference to material things and his all- consuming passion for work. The son of a successful Carmel doctor, Greg could have led a life of wealth and leisure, but instead, to the exclusion of all else, he applied himself to his first love—his only love—science. At twenty-five he was just months away from his doctorate in marine biology. They were near the same age, had similar temperaments and interests . . . and had not the least shred of romantic interest in one another. As a result, they were able to be good friends; honest, and natural, and at ease with each other. 'What's this I hear about you taking a job as a stuntwoman on some silly movie?' asked Greg crossly, when he looked up and saw Candace. 'Bad news sure travels fast,' she remarked uncomfortably, toying mth her braid. 'No one's talking about anything else this morning.' Frowning, Greg labelled a slide. 'Sounds like an absurd waste of time to me. And I was counting on your help with the seal population survey.' 'I'll only be gone a few weeks,' she said somewhat tartly, irritated by his faintly sulky tone. 'And I assure you I didn't want to take the job.' She told him about the ruined watch. 'So that explains it,' he said, looking up from his work, a smile on his open face. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair. 'Sorry to jump on you like that, Candace. I should have known you wouldn't do anything

that unpredictable without a good reason.' He picked up another slide and examined it briefly in the microscope before labelling it. Silent, Candace watched him work, not at all sure she was happy with being so predictable. 'Will you miss me?' she asked suddenly, to her own surprise. It wasn't like her to make overt pleas for reassurance. What was wrong? Why was she feeling so unsure of herself? Without looking up, Greg grimaced. 'I would if there was going to be time to. But Dr Dresner wants to see the survey data by the beginning of September—it's critical to my dissertation. Without your help,' he grumbled, 'it's going to be touch and go whether I can get it all done.' Well, Candace thought, ask an honest question, get an honest answer. 'You could always ask Becky,' she said. 'She's about done with the otter habitat study. I'm sure she'd be delighted to help.' Greg's face came up. 'Not a bad idea,' he reflected. 'In fact, it's a great idea. Thanks.' Down over the microscope went the touselled head, and he was lost in his work again. Add thank you, Greg Coleman, Candace said silently, for all that interest and sympathy. He looked up suddenly. 'Oh, have a good time in Sardinia or wherever.' It was obviously an afterthought; his mind was somewhere else—on his slides or his seal populations. She gave him a half-smile. 'I'd better go check on my baby seal, and then get some work done this morning.' She said it lightly, but inside she was forlorn and lonely and a little confused. After all, Greg was only being true to form. And wasn't that the kind of dedication to one's work that she admired and tried to emulate?

Immature fur seal, Tag Number 3773-1294, already nicknamed Bonkers, was tucking away a meal of fish laced with medication when Candace reached his pen. 'Hello, little fellow,' she smiled, gingerly patting the pup's sleek head. The seal's evident new alertness cheered her but also made her more careful about touching it. Seal teeth are sharp, made to rip and tear. Even a twenty-pound youngster like Bonkers could bite deeply if given the chance. 'You'd better get healthy and strong again after getting me into all this hot water,' she threatened, 'or I'll never forgive you!' Oblivious, Bonkers continued to munch placidly away. A middle-aged stocky man wearing a rubber apron over his white coat strolled to her. 'How is he, Dr Dresner?' asked Candace. 'Definitely malnourished, and he's suffering from a respiratory infection. But it's nothing that an enriched diet and a few doses of antibiotics can't take care of.' 'Good.' Candace smiled. 'He can be returned to the wild, then, after he recovers?' 'Yes, the Farallon Islands will be the best place to release him.' Only once had Candace had an opportunity tovisit the Farallon Islands, a group of small, rocky, fog-shrouded islands which lay twenty-five miles off the San Francisco coast. Uninhabited and remote, the islands were a protected wildlife sanctuary and would be an ideal launch pad for Bonkers. 'If I'm back in time, I'd love to be there when he's released. Could I?'

Dr Dresner seemed surprised by her unexpected indulgence in sentimentality. 'Why not?' He smiled. 'But don't expect him to look back and wave a flipper. By the way, congratulations. I hear you're off to Sardinia.' Candace blushed faintly. She was the number one topic of conversation, all right! 'Yes, thank you.' His voice grew nostalgic. 'In my college days I spent more than one summer in the Mediterranean. It's a diver's paradise. You must be thrilled.' 'I would be if I were going on a research trip-, or maybe even a vacation. As it is . . .' her voice trailed off and she gave a little shrug. 'Oh, you never know. Stuntwork might be pretty interesting, and you're bound to have some free time for exploring,' he said kindly. 'I have some field guides and texts on the area, and a rather tattered Italian Berlitz guide, as I recall. You're welcome to borrow them for the trip, if you'd like.' 'I would, thanks.' For the first time she felt a tremor of excitement about going. Perhaps she'd haw some free time for diving—a great deal of it, now that she thought about it. Certainly the great Anthony Belmont and his Hollywood friends were not the type to put in anything like a full day's work. Not with all that sunshine and warm sand around.

CHAPTER THREE 'BUON giorno, signore.' For the last week Candace had been practising Italian phrases from her Berlitz book, and still the words came out awkwardly. 'Buon giorno, signorina.' The short, portly Customs official gave her a ready smile and openly checked her over from head to toe. If she hadn't spent a four-hour layover in the Rome airport between the endless flight from San Francisco and the short hop to Olbia, on the Italian island of Sardinia, Candace would have interpreted the man's manner quite differently. It hadn't taken her long to discover that all Italian men indulged— at every opportunity—in the national pastime of seduction with the eyes. Candace would have been more flattered with the fervency of the attention she had been receiving if she hadn't noticed that all women, whatever their age, shape, or size, were accorded the same feverish gazes of unfathomable longing. She had always assumed that 'anything in skirts' was an American phrase. Now she thought its origin must be Italian. The Customs man turned his attention to Candace's heavily loaded suitcase. His leisurely perusal of the contents, interspersed with looks of adoration flashed in her direction, would have amused her if she hadn't been so tired and disorientated. She had been travelling for eighteen hours, on top of which she had been too restless to sleep the night before her departure. All of which meant that she'd been awake for almost forty-eight hours. She envied the rest of the film crew; they had flown over two days before in a jet chartered by the studio. But a delay in getting her Italian work visa had forced Candace to come alone by commercial airlines. Never had she felt so grimy and exhausted, and this interminable Customs process wasn't the end of it. After it was done, her instructions called for her to take a taxi to a town called Palau, where

she would then have to catch a ferry to the little island of La Maddalena, just off the Sardinian mainland's north-east coast. And then still another taxi to the pensione. That was, assuming she could make any of the taxi drivers understand where she wanted to go with her infantile, halting Italian. She groaned inwardly at the journey still ahead and heartily wished the official would hurry up. A quick glance around revealed that the other passengers had cleared Customs and departed. This smiling, affable man was really taking his time. Suddenly he saw something in her suitcase that wiped the smile off his face. Candace leaned forward to get a better look. It was her diving gear: mask, fins, knife and weightbelt, lying on top of her wetsuit. Certainly it couldn't be illegal to bring such things in, she thought nervously, as she watched the man beckon to a colleague who hurried over to him. For a few moments the two men conversed excitedly and incomprehensibly in Italian, then turned and talked rapidly to her, both at the same time. Candace, unable to understand a word, flipped through her Berlitz guide to the section titled 'Arrival'. To her relief, there was, 'I'm sorry, I don't understand.' 'Mi dispiace,; she tried, 'non capisco.' Abruptly the men stopped talking and looked at her blankly. She must have pronounced the words wrong. Nervously she tried again, this time with more success. However, the answering flood of words and theatrical gestures were completely beyond her ... until one of them gingerly picked up the knife between thumb and forefinger, his little finger extended as if he were holding a tiny cup at a tea party. His eyebrows were raised questioningly. Her stomach lurched as a wave of apprehension washed sickeningly through her. Did they truly think it was a weapon? It had been funny when Anthony Belmont had called it one, but it wasn't funny now.

With visions before her of languishing in an Italian prison for the rest of her life, Candace flipped frantically through the little book, but it was futile, of course. The average tourist didn't need a section called: 'What to do if you are caught carrying a concealed weapon into Italy.' She looked up to find that other airport and Custpjns personnel had drifted over. Soon the flood of Italian swelled to a torrent, with her portly Customs man gesturing grandly for the benefit of his audience. Not content simply to listen, several others added their opinions. It was as if she was in the midst of a rehearsal for an Italian opera and she alone had forgotten to bring a script. Candace bit back a mounting desire to laugh, knowing full well that there was more than a touch of hysteria in the impulse. The touch of a strong hand on her arm startled her. 'Do my eyes deceive me, Miss Hillyer, or do you again require rescuing?' Candace spun around and found herself looking up into a taunting, handsome face. At the sight of the familiar features her heart lurched, then started hammering. Trying to ignore her sudden turmoil, she managed to answer tartly, 'Even if I did, Mr Belmont, I doubt if I could afford your help a second time.' 'But it doesn't look like you have much choice this time either, does it?' he drawled, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. 'I knew it wasn't safe to leave you on your own,' he added derisively, before turning to the Italians. Seething with indignation, Candace was forced to watch helplessly. His Italian was fluent, however, and he appeared to be making headway.

That Anthony Belmont's Italian was excellent was not a surprise. Before she had left home, curiosity had got the better of her, and in a weak moment, when Becky wasn't looking, she had glanced through one of the gossip magazine pieces about him. Most of the article was devoted to a lascivious account of the startlingly numerous women in his life, but a few sentences had given his background: His parents had emigrated from Italy to the United States just before he was born, and though they had promptly changed their namefrom Belmondo to Belmont, they had continued to observe many Italian customs, and young Anthony had grown up in a household in which as much Italian as English had been spoken. Reluctantly, Candace had to admire the cool, efficient way he quickly brought down the volume of the shouting. Moving easily in an aura of confidence and power, he appeared to explain things to the officials' satisfaction with a few businesslike sentences. Her admiration went up another notch when within moments he had her entirely through Customs and tucked into the spacious rear of a gleaming black Rolls Royce driven by a uniformed chauffeur. Too dazed to comment, Candace sank euphorically back against the luxurious deep blue velveteen upholstery. 'I suppose I should thank you,' she said drily, as he climbed in beside her. Then, as the car glided silently out of the airport parking lot, she added,, 'but may I refrain until I discover just what I'm going to have to do to repay you for this rescue?' 'A hell of a lot,' he grumbled, eyeing her with undisguised displeasure, 'since it looks like I'm the one who's going to have to keep you on a blasted leash.' Candace bolted upright. 'What in the world do you mean?'

'They wanted to detain you for questioning. They would have too, if I hadn't offered to take you into my personal custody while they run a check on you to make sure you aren't a suspected terrorist.' 'You've got to be kidding!' 'I wish the hell I were,' he said grimly. 'Directing a film in a foreign location is hard enough without being saddled with the responsibility of a babe in arms.' Hot colour flooded her creamy cheeks. 'Under ordinary circumstances I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself—' 'I bet you are,' he mocked. 'Anyway, this particular incident is all your fault,' she challenged. 'I distinctly recall, Mr Belmont, being requested to bring all my own equipment, except for a tank.' He studied her with one eyebrow raised. 'Hmm, it pains me to admit it, but you have a cogent point there.' He smiled sardonically at her, and then quite surprisingly said, 'Look, since we're going to have to be seeing a lot of each other for a while, wouldn't Anthony suffice?' Surprised or not, Candace barely heard the last sentence. She had made the mistake of closing her eyes for a second when she leaned back against the seat—just to rest them. The fight drained out of her as a delicious lassitude took its place. She settled deeper into the plush upholstery and her head, increasingly heavy, began to fall forward. The movement startled her and she awoke briefly, only long enough to feel a strong arm pull her gently against a broad, wonderfully comfortable shoulder. Gratefully, she relaxed and let the heavenly mist of sleep drift over her, nestling her face against his crisp, cool, smooth linen jacket. Stirring only slightly when those strong arms

carried her from the car, she sighed softly as she stretched luxuriously out on the bed she found herself magically on. Gentle, solicitous hands took off her shoes and tucked a blanket around her. Her last perception was of a voice—inexplicably soft and caressing— 'Sweet dreams, kitten,' it whispered.

For several moments Candace lay there, only half awake, her mind totally disorganised. The whitewashed walls decorated with open-weave baskets of delicate beauty, the open-beamed ceiling, and the half-closed white shutters didn't look even faintly familiar. Then the memory of falling asleep on Anthony Belmont's shoulder came back in a rush. A vague recollection of being carried like a child and popped into bed floated across her mind. Her cheeks flamed and, pushing back her tumbled hair, she sat up abruptly, scanning the room, half expecting to see him watching her with his dark, disturbing eyes. The room was empty. Tossing the blanket aside, she swung her feet down on to the soft, flossy sheepskin rug next to the bed. As she did, she became aware of just how luxurious the room was. Spacious, furnished with elegantly graceful rattan furniture on which plump, Kelly-green cushions nestled, and beautifully decorated with bright Sardinian rugs and baskets, it couldn't possibly be the 'modest but serviceable' room that had been reserved for her in the medium-priced Pensione Tirrenia. She moved hesitantly across the gleaming tiled floor to open one of the shutters. And gasped. Bathed in an ethereal, slightly misty morning light, an enormous, red-tiled terrace overlooked a tranquil cove lined with smooth, massive boulders sculpted into fantastic shapes by wind and water.

From the rocks a small white dock with a simple sign that said 'Villa Sardegna' extended a little way into the sea. And what a sea it was—an enchanted, watery rainbow of aquamarine, turquoise, jade . . . and a hundred shades of blue and green she couldn't name. Candace stood mesmerised until a tap on the door startled her. 'Good, you're awake,' Anthony observed when she opened the door, then added after an appraising and critical look, 'although somewhat the worse for wear.' The same couldn't be said for him. In his casual European-styled bush-jacket, tailored slacks and open-throated blue sports shirt, he was downright dashing; more extravagantly handsome than any man had a right to be. Arrogant sexuality positively radiated from him, and she was far too physically conscious of him for comfort. To her vast irritation she sensed that he was aware of how she responded to him. But then, with his experience with women, he was no doubt adept at reading the signs, and quite used to seeing them. Her eyes dropped down to her own dishevelled clothes, and she didn't have to glance in a mirror to know her long auburn hair was ruffled and untidy. She must look a fright, Candace thought agitatedly—not that it mattered, of course. 'So would you'd be if you'd slept in your clothes,' she retorted. 'Somehow, I didn't think you'd appreciate it if I stripped you before putting you to bed,' he replied lazily, as his impudent glance travelled slowly over the length of her. Candace blushed furiously and wanted to kick herself for it. 'Not that I wasn't tempted,' Anthony went on. 'Asleep in my arms, you were quite surprisingly alluring.' He said it with a husky edge to his voice, and her stomach was suddenly filled with fluttering butterflies.

Hunger, she told herself stoutly, that's all it is. I haven't had anything to eat for ages. 'Of course,' said Anthony, 'inasmuch as you turn into a vixen the moment you open your eyes, it's a different story when you're awake.' Candace shot him a withering look, but completely unabashed, he chuckled good-humouredly. 'You've got time to shower before breakfast if you make it quick. We leave in forty-five minutes.' 'You mean we start filming today?' 'No, tomorrow,' 'Then where do I have to go?' she asked, more than a little annoyed at the cavalier way he was ordering her about. 'Wherever I do,' he said. She looked at him blankly. 'Why?' 'Because, little one, I swore on my word of honour to the Italian police not to let you out of my sight. Remember?' She hadn't, but the scene at the airport came back to her with vivid clarity. She frowned. That also explained why he hadn't taken her to the Pensione Tirrenia but instead to his own hotel. 'It won't take them long to check up on me, will it?' she asked, biting her lower lip in consternation. 'God, I hope not,' Anthony retorted bluntly, 'but inasmuch as the Italian bureaucracy is not known for speed, don't hold your breath.' He drew his eyebrows together slightly. 'I have some important people to meet for lunch, so try to make yourself presentable . . . and a bit more

mature- looking, if that's possible,' he added disagreeably. 'Breakfast on the terrace in twenty minutes.' Even if she had wanted to dress up—and Anthony's smug, disdainful injunction to do so was no reason for that—she had nothing chic to put on. He seemed to have forgotten she was a self- supporting working girl, with college tuition and books to pay for. Her simple turquoise cotton sundress wasn't too awful, though, even if the style was a bit dated. At least her auburn hair, brushed until gleaming with golden highlights, and falling loosely on her shoulders, was attractive enough. And some lipstick and a little light eye make-up did make her seem older. Her self-assurance vanished the instant she stepped out on to the terrace and saw Anthony frown at the sight of her. He glanced at his watch, then at her, his dark eyes unreadable. 'What size dress and shoes do you wear?' 'What?' 'What sizes do you wear?' he repeated impatiently. 'I can't take you around with me like that. You look like a schoolgirl on holiday. The reporters would make mincemeat of me. And you,' he added as an afterthought. 'Are you worried about your image or mine?' she answered sweetly, with just a tinge of sarcasm. If it's mine, don't bother. I value the opinions of the people I care about, that's all. The rest of the world can think what it wants.' Anthony gave her a long, cool look of appraisal. 'Oh? I'd admire that sentiment, actually, if I thought there was more to it than a very naive bravado. The press, as you'll soon see, are like barracuda—always on

the lookout for something to tear apart. And you'd change your tune when you saw the first snatched photo of us in some racy tabloid, with a nonsensical story underneath. Your reputation would be in shreds.' His eyes darkened ominously. 'And that's not a far-fetched possibility—unless we go and get you some fashionable clothes from the hotel boutique right now. They'll give you some protective colouration, as you marine biologists might say.' 'Absolutely not,' she asserted, her chin set, defiantly. 'I'm perfectly able to take care of myself. I don't need any protective colouration. As far as I'm concerned, the press can have a field day.' Her eyes met his unflinchingly. 'Anyway, I'm not going to become any more indebted to you than I already am.' Candace had been in the presence of several marine predators while diving—although never the barracuda—but none had seemed more deadly or terrifying than the lean, tall man who lounged so casually in front of her, assessing her with half- lidded eyes. It wasn't so much a physical apprehensiveness that she was feeling, although there was certainly a touch of that. It was something far more subtle—as if her very freedom to chart her own course in life was being threatened by his force and power. Like any knowledgeable diver, she knew that the best way to deal with a dangerous predator was to leave the area. One retreats with confidence, deliberation, and smoothness, so that it doesn't sense fear, but one retreats nevertheless. But with Anthony Belmont, the usual tactics didn't seem to work, because she'd already tried them without success. Somehow she had to make him want to avoid her. The question was how? Anthony shrugged his shoulders as she stood there defiantly. 'Then don't say I didn't warn you,' he said offhandedly.

A buzzer rang in the distance. He spun on his heel and disappeared from the terrace into the adjoining suite. Mulling over her problem, Candace looked absently around her and saw that their two suites were the only ones which opened on to the wide terrace overlooking the lovely little cove. A natural screen of thick vegetation sealed off both the terrace and the cove from the rest of the hotel grounds. She didn't even want to know what it must cost to obtain this kind of privacy at a luxury resort. Returning with a slender, smiling waiter, Anthony directed the youth to set his tray down at the patio table, then dismissed him. 'Speaking of reporters,' Candace said lightly, as she sat down on the delicate wooden chair Anthony pulled out for her, 'what will happen if they find out we have adjoining suites? Isn't that rather more open to scandalous interpretation,' she asked, her tone somewhat tart, 'than my schoolgirl appearance?' 'I suppose it would be,' he answered unconcernedly, pouring her a steaming, marvellously fragrant cup of café latte—half Italian espresso coffee and half steamed milk—if the information got out. But the owner of this hotel prides himself on protecting the privacy of his guests—a valuable commodity, and worth paying for in a country where the paparazzi have perfected their techniques to a fine art.' Suddenly conscious of her hunger, Candace took a sip of the cafe latte, which tasted as heavenly as it smelled. A crusty roll, spread with butter and jam, was even more delicious. 'Paparazzi?' she asked when she had swallowed. 'What are they?' 'Freelance reporters and photographers— "monkeys", they're sometimes called.' He sipped his coffee. 'They make their living selling candid— and usually unflattering—pictures of royalty or celebrities, or by writing stories based on the most tenuous gossip.

Once they smell a story, they'll do anything—engage around-the-clock stake-outs with telescopic cameras, bribe servants, chase their prey in high-powered cars—or boats—crawl through jungles . . .'Anthony grimaced and shook his head. 'You name it, and they'll do it.' 'It must make your social life difficult,' she said casually, as the germ of an idea presented itself in her mind. Perhaps she could engineer Anthony Belmont's willing retreat. For a while they ate in silence. With all the time she spent swimming, Candace had always had a healthy appetite—the envy of friends who were constantly on diets—and she had had nothing to eat since early afternoon of the day before. While she reflected on her developing plan, she ate two more rolls, an orange, a crisp, deep red apple, and a banana. Sitting back contentedly with a second cup of caffe latte, she addressed Anthony. 'Actually, I imagined that any publicity would be good publicity in the film industry.' 'Yes and no,' he said, giving her a wry grin. 'I welcome publicity about my job or any films I'm working on, but I prefer to keep my private life just that—private. And speaking of work, it's time to go.' Then, eyeing the greatly depleted bread basket and fruit bowl, he added drily, 'Do you think that mound of food you've devoured will get you through until lunch, or had we better stop for a bite on the way?' Candace coloured slightly. Apparently Anthony was used to more sedentary women who were of necessity dainty eaters. Obviously, he thought she'd made a pig of herself. He grinned when he saw her blush. 'Just teasing, little one. It's a pleasant change to eat a meal with a woman who's not on a diet. Besides,' he added, his eyes drifting over her in a proprietorial way that set her teeth on edge, 'if anything, you need a little fattening up.'

'Like a stray alley kitten?' she retorted caustically, echoing the words he had used in their first meeting. 'Exactly,' he drawled, amused. Time to go.' The man definitely needed reminding that kittens can scratch when they don't feel like being toyed with, Candace thought angrily, grabbing her bag and following him through his suite, then across an exterior courtyard to a small lot. In it stood the Rolls Royce, once again complete with chauffeur. For the short drive into town she forgot everything while her eyes drank in the strange, savage splendour of the Sardinian countryside. It was unlike anything she had ever seen, and harshly beautiful in the incandescent sunlight: bleak, craggy mountains and rocky hills juxtaposed with beaches of smooth white sand and bays and inlets of dazzling emerald green. And all of it under a blindingly brilliant sky of cerulean blue. With a start, Candace realised that she didn't really know where they were, since she had slept through the journey from the airport. 'We are on the island of La Maddalena, aren't we?' she asked, turning away from the car window towards Anthony. He looked up from the notebook he was studying. 'I'm sorry,' she added. 'I didn't realise you were reading.' He didn't seem to mind the interruption. 'Just reviewing tomorrow's shooting order. Yes, we're on La Maddalena. That's the name of the island, the town ahead, and the whole archipelago as well.' 'The countryside is so unusual . . . and beautiful,' said Candace, thinking how much she was going to love spending her free time exploring some of those crystal-clear inlets. 'By the way, what are my working hours?'

'Dawn to dusk.' 'Dawn to dusk?' she echoed in surprise. 'Why, I imagined . . .'Her voice trailed off. 'That we Hollywood types spend most of our time drinking, partying and generally having a good time,' he mocked, 'occasionally sandwiching in an hour of work here and there.' 'Well, actually. . . yes!' she confessed. 'Sorry to be the one to disillusion you, Candace, but every day of shooting a film is terrifically costly, especially on location, so we have to work as long as the light's good. But don't worry,' he added, noting her crestfallen look, 'something—rain, illness, union trouble—always happens to delay shooting for a day or two; you'll have your chance to do a little exploring, if that's what you're thinking about.' They had reached the town, with its cluster of simple, rectangular buildings. Most were whitewashed, with red-tiled roofs, though a few were painted in soft pastels of pink, tan, and green. The chauffeur pulled the car to a halt at the harbour steps, near the centre of town, where a motor launch waited to take them out to the chartered yacht from which the underwater scenes would be shot. Also waiting for them was a small but excited knot of photographers and reporters. Candace felt her heart race slightly with excitement. She hadn't thought the opportunity would come so quickly for her to execute the simple plan she had devised to make Anthony Belmont retreat from her with all due speed. To her surprise and dismay she realised she was as disappointed as she was excited at the prospect. That in itself was an all-too-clear danger sign, and the sooner she reduced the amount of time she spent in his magnetic presence the better off she would be.

CHAPTER FOUR 'JUST smile sweetly and don't say anything, Candace,' cautioned Anthony, as the chauffeur opened his door. 'Let me do all the talking.' As soon as they stepped from the car, cameras began to click and whirr, and questions—some in Italian, some in English—flew about her ears. Anthony answered some, parried others, and ignored a few, and Candace found herself admiring his adept blend of geniality and aloofness—a combination that achieved his goal of getting publicity without encouraging familiarity. One reporter, a thin young Italian with his hair cut unfashionably long, didn't need any encouragement to be familiar. 'What does Corinne Wayne think about your new young companion?' he asked in heavily accented English, while eyeing Candace in a way that made it quite clear what he thought. 'Miss Hillyer is a stand-in for one of our stunt-women,' Anthony replied in a clipped but casual tone. 'She is not my "new companion".' 'Of course I'm not,' Candace interjected in a soft tone with just a hint of facetiousness. This she followed with an impish smile. Subtle but effective, she thought in satisfaction, as she saw the reporters prick up their ears like a dog that has just heard its dinner bowl rattle. Anthony shot her a quick, sidelong look that held puzzlement as well as a dangerous glint of anger. Before any of the reporters had a chance to follow up on Candace's comment, he signalled the motor launch helmsman to start the engines. 'Sorry, gentlemen, but I'm running late,' he said, raising his voice so it could be heard over the sudden roar, 'but Chuck Moserby, our publicity manager, will be happy to answer any further questions

about the film.' With a wave to the group, he quickly hustled Candace down the steps and into the launch. 'What the hell was that all about?' he grated fiercely, as soon as he had jumped aboard. Then a sudden, sharp light dawned in his eyes. In a steely voice that sent shivers down her back, he drawled, 'You want publicity, don't you? Well, I'll give you some, gratis.' As the boat edged away from the dock, Anthony pulled her towards him. Candace, too busy trying to keep her balance at the sudden movement of the boat deck, was unable to resist. His mouth crushed down on hers, parting her lips ruthlessly. Powerless, with no will of her own, she found herself trembling passively in Anthony's savage embrace. In all her life she had never experienced an emotional onslaught like this. Her mind swam and seemed to shimmer, and she felt as if she were slowly dissolving under the sensual warmth of those demanding, searching lips. When he finally began to withdraw his mouth she was appalled at her own reaction—helplessly, unthinkingly, she pressed towards him, wanting his kiss never to end. Fortunately, it was only a momentary response, and she jerked quickly back. He gave her a cruel, sardonic smile. 'Front page, at least . . . maybe, if you're lucky, the headline story.' His sarcastic tone belatedly snapped Candace out of her trance. Pushing him away, she cried furiously, 'How dare you!' and spun from him, only to look into the grinning face of the helmsman, who had stopped the boat and was enjoying himself immensely from his ringside seat—but not half so much as the photographers snapping frantically away from their vantage point on the harbour steps above them. With a muffled cry of anger and humiliation, she turned away and sat down in one of the seats at the back, averting her face from all of them.

Anthony must have given a signal, because the helmsman started up again, this time more powerfully, and the boat lunged forward. Anthony joined her. His handsome mouth thinned. Tm rather surprised at you,' he said, his voice heavy with disapproval. 'I didn't think you were the kind of woman who would seek out publicity.' 'Go away,' she said raggedly, glaring icily at him. She thought briefly of shoving him over the rail against which he lounged, but knew the pleasure wouldn't be worth the price. 'I don't want to discuss it.' She turned away. 'Well, you're going to,' Anthony retorted, turning her head back and forcing her to look up at him. His eyes seemed to lance into her, but she made herself return his look. 'Was it to make you look glamorous to your friends back home?' 'No, of course not,' she protested fervently. 'And I only wanted a little mention . . . some innuendo, really, about your being seen with me ... I didn't want a storm of publicity.' 'Why did you want it?' he asked tersely, his dark eyes still stormy. 'Because . . she floundered, . . because I thought if your . . . your lady friends heard about me, they'd give you a hard time, and you'd be upset, and so you'd pressure the Italian police to hurry with their inquiries, or maybe you'd give the responsibility for me over to someone else . . .' She ran out of breath and stopped. 'Do you hate me so much?' asked Anthony with a bitter-sweet half-smile, his voice surprisingly soft. 'I don't hate you at all,' she answered quietly, her slate-green eyes enormous and glossy with unshed tears. Then with a naive honesty,

she added, 'I'm afraid of you. I don't know why, I'm just afraid of you, and I wish you'd leave me alone . . . just disappear from my life.'

Salpe (Italian: Salpa or Sarpa). Can be seen everywhere in the Mediterranean swimming in schools. Adult fish are silvery-gold with 10-12 yellow stripes alohg the body. (See Plate 12.) Candace flipped through the textbook to Plate 12, but stared down unseeingly at the photograph. On the stern deck of the big yacht, twenty feet from where she sat in a comfortable wooden recliner, Anthony, surrouilded by several members of his film crew, was deep into last-minute planning. She was too far away to catch more than a few words, but the mere sound of his deep baritone voice was enough to play havoc with her concentration— which was already thoroughly rattled by distressingly vivid memories of that unsettling kiss of a few hours ago. Enough of this, Candace thought for the tenth time, and turned back to the section on Salpe. She forced herself to read on. Salpe often swim with their mouths open, foraging over sandy bottoms or feeding on seaweed and algae . . . Why, Candace wondered ruefully, as her mind drifted away yet again, had she confessed her fear to him on the motor launch? Infuriatingly, he had laughed and called her an innocent. She glanced covertly at him now. He had tossed off his jacket, and his superb, powerfully muscled body, bronzed and lithe, was set off rather than concealed by a snug, short-sleeved sports shirt. Adding to his virile good looks, a thick mat of dark, curly hair peeped from the shirt's open neck. No wonder the women of the crew, like Leslie Collins, the script supervisor, were hanging on his every word.

To her dismay, he looked up to see her staring at him, and their gazes locked. Even from this distance, Candace could feel the unsettling current of acute physical awareness that he so readily sparked in her. It had been bad enough before that kiss; now it was almost unbearable. Cheeks flaming, she hastily dropped her eyes down to the page. The feeding attitude of the Salpe is head down, tail waggling. Even tiny ones have this attitude. She wondered what the attitude of the film crew was going to be towards her when they saw tomorrow's headlines. Her introduction to them earlier this morning had been casual and pleasant enough, and they had greeted her with a reserved friendliness, although more than one eyebrow had been politely raised. A dark shadow fell on her book and she looked up, her heart racing, to see Anthony looming over her. He angled his dark head to read the title. 'Field Guide to Marine Life in the Mediterranean. Sounds fascinating,' he drawled sardonically, amusement lurking in his eyes. 'You've been so engrossed, I thought you'd brought along a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover in your bag. I should have known better.' Candace willed herself not to blush under his taunting gaze and was only partially successful. 'We're breaking for lunch,' he added. 'How about a swim first?' 'Don't you have a luncheon engagement?' Anthony grinned crookedly. 'In light of this morning's excitement, I thought I'd better send my assistant director, Max Fuller, in my stead.' Dropping her eyes, Candace looked down; a shining curtain of auburn hair fell across her face. 'I'm Sorry for my share in that.'

'Your share? It was all yours, the way I remember it.' 'I didn't kiss you,' she said haughtily, looking back up at him. 'You had no right to do that.' 'What?' he exclaimed in mock surprise. 'And not play my part in this comedy of errors you seem to be directing? Or is it a soap opera?' He headed off her angry retort by adding, 'Come on, take a dip. You need one.' With a final infuriating grin, he turned and left her. The nerve of that man, trying to blame everything on her! Well, he was right about one thing anyhow: she needed a swim. Muttering to herself, she slipped on one of the swimsuits kept on the yacht for guests and dived over the side into the calm sea. It was the most lucid water she had ever swum in, and she took four or five strokes under water for the sheer joy of it, revelling in the cool blue, sun-dappled world below the surface. Most of the crew was also in the water, but they stayed within a few feet of the yacht, content with treading water or mild horseplay. Not Candace; she struck out for a long, hard swim, not turning back until she tired. It was three-quarters of an hour by the time she got back, and the stewards were setting out a luncheon buffet of cold meats and salads. People ate standing up, talking in groups of two or three about nothing but The Emerald Sea or other movies they had worked on. Candace, sitting quietly on the sidelines, found herself listening to the conversation with a growing interest. When she had finished her roast beef sandwich, she asked Anthony if she could read a copy of the script. He seemed surprised at her request. 'You don't need to. Since you don't have a speaking part, we'll just fill you in on what you have to know as we go along. Besides,' he added with cool sarcasm, 'it'd be too lightweight for your taste. I wouldn't want to waste your time.'

'But I'd like to,' she insisted, ignoring the jibe. He shrugged. 'Suit yourself,' he said, turning to his script supervisor. 'Leslie, give Candace a script, please.' Stretching out on a deck chair Candace opened the script's protective plastic cover. At first she found the story difficult to follow. Leslie had given her a production script, not an actor's, and it contained not only the dialogue and story action, but a multitude of confusing technical details: camera angles, lighting set-ups, sound instructions, other things she couldn't even identify. Gradually, though, Candace learned how to follow the thread of the plot and soon was caught up in it. It was an action-packed story, filled with colour and adventure: Two lovers on holiday accidentally discover a sunken Spanish ship and find themselves enmeshed in a world of intrigue, suspense and danger. It was just the sort of film her father would have dragged her off to in the old days. And, despite herself, she would have had a thoroughly good time watching it—enjoying both the movie and the huge bucket of hot buttered popcorn they would invariably share. The afternoon was gone by the time Candace read the last page, with its satisfying and happy ending. With real regret she put the script dreamily aside. How long it had been since she enjoyed herself so! And for the first time she had been able to think about her father without that tight, choked hurting in her breast. Instead, there was a bittersweet—but sweet nevertheless—feeling of warm and peaceful remembrance. 'Let's call it a day,' she heard Anthony shout at the other end of the yacht. 'Tomorrow, six a.m. sharp.' Reluctant to break the tranquil spell, Candace sat quietly while the launch went back and forth ferrying crew members from the yacht to the dock. She was in the last load, with Anthony, Max Fuller, and

Leslie Collins, and her pensive silence was unnoticed; the other three were deeply absorbed in shop talk. But the spell was snapped for her before they reached shore. 'Damn,' she heard Anthony mutter sharply. 'Just look at the mob! This is going to be a first-class mess.' Candace glanced up to see that the broad stone steps leading up from the water were packed with reporters and photographers—more than there had been that morning, and more unruly. Sardonically, Anthony muttered, 'We can thank your nutty behaviour this morning for this!' Candace glared fiercely at him but held her tongue. Lining the launch up with the steps, the helmsman cut the engines. At once the questions the excited paparazzi were shouting became noisily audible, and Candace was staggered at what she heard. 'When's the wedding, Mr Belmont?' ... 'Is it true you're engaged?'. . . 'How long have you two known each other?' ... Anthony stood there without a sign of surprise or anger, coolly waiting for the din to die down. Candace didn't think it ever would, but within a few seconds his calm, authoritative presence created an aura of respectful silence around him. He motioned for Candace to join him. She had no choice but to obey and, dreamy and disorientated, she moved to him. 'Just smile, little one, and this time keep your mouth shut,' Anthony instructed under his breath. To her astonishment she felt him put his arm around her and draw her close to his side with easy power. Again there was an explosion of shouted questions and clicking cameras.

'Quiet, everyone!' someone shouted. 'We want to hear what Mr Belmont has to say!' 'Yes, we're engaged,' said Anthony, smiling, 'and no, we haven't set a date yet. I have a film to direct first.' He delivered a fond look down at Candace and gave her shoulder an affectionate' squeeze. Candace stared at him, open-mouthed, her eyes wide with shock. What in the world was he thinking of? Had he suddenly gone crazy? How— 'Smile, Candace,' he murmured, barely moving his lips. 'I know exactly what I'm doing.' With relaxed, laughing charm he answered a few questions in Italian. Then he tilted his head for a quick conference with Max—who looked as confused as Candace felt. When Max nodded, Anthony murmured a word or two to the helmsman and spoke again to the reporters. 'Will you please step back just a little and let our passengers disembark?' He spoke without raising his voice, yet his clear, firm words knifed through the noise and they moved obediently back. Max and Leslie stepped bravely into the crowd, who showed no interest whatever in them, and the launch sped away from the dock back towards the yacht to the accompaniment of a chorus of groans and protests from tht paparazzi. Candace turned furiously to Anthony, but he held up his hand. 'The yacht's crew is watching,' he said. 'This is no time for a scene.' Indeed, most of the small Italian crew were looking curiously at the two people returning so unexpectedly, and when they helped Anthony and Candace on board their eyes were alight with unspoken interest. Anthony silently indicated a guest stateroom towards the stern, and

with an effort she managed to restrain her indignation until they reached it and shut the door behind themselves. 'Are you completely mad?' she snapped, her eyes sparkling with anger. 'No, just completely practical,' Anthony said drily, watching her with laconic amusement. 'Tomorrow or the next day something else will occur to distract the press's attention and air this hullabaloo will dissipate like so much fizz from a bottle of champagne that's been left open. Meanwhile we'll sleep on board.' Candace opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her short. 'If propriety is what you're worried about, Max and Leslie are returning later tonight to join us, and they'll bring our luggage. When your stunt job is over—long after today's session is old hat—we'll become quietly unengaged. And two months from now everyone will have forgotten completely about it.' A faint smile touched his lips. 'I hope.' 'What do you mean, "I hope"?' she asked suspiciously. Anthony grinned ruefully and wandered to a minuscule bar. 'Nothing for you to worry about. Just me.' He opened the little cabinet. 'Meaning?' persisted Candace, eyeing him sceptically. 'Meaning my family. I'm the eldest son, and they've been hounding me for years to get married and get on with a family of my own. Over thirty years in America, and they're still very Italian and very traditional. If they hear about this, they're going to be disappointed to find out it's not true.' He rummaged for a few moments in the cabinet and finally found what he wanted. 'Ah,' he said, 'speaking of champagne, even a phoney engagement deserves a toast.' 'And do you always keep a bottle on ice for just such occasions?' she asked tersely, watching him pop the cork and fill two fluted-stemmed

tulip glasses. She spoke flippantly, but inside she was growing increasingly nervous. The whole crazy situation had gone beyond soap opera, and was quickly turning to farce—and heaven only knew when it was going to end. His smile was filled with lazy charm. 'Sorry to disappoint you, but up to now I've managed to avoid reporting to such extreme tactics. And you,' he said, 'are my first fiancee . . . phoney or otherwise.' With the champagne he moved smoothly to her, put a glass in her hand, and lightly clinked his own glass to hers. 'Salute,' he said, his voice soft. His closeness produced in her the same indescribable and bewildering sensations that it had before. With her heart pounding and her legs unsteady and weak, Candace sipped her champagne. Was he aware of the effect he had on her? Would he sense her fear if she stepped back away from him? Keeping his eyes on hers—while Candace shakily willed herself not to look away—he took a swallow from his own glass, then casually set it down and took hers away from her trembling fingers. 'You're too intelligent not to know why you're afraid of me, Candace,' he said quietly. He tilted her chin and she found herself drowning in the deep brown pools of his eyes. Now she couldn't have looked away if she'd wanted to. 'You're running from the knowledge . . . just the way you're running from life itself.' 'I don't know what you mean.' She had meant to speak forcefully, but her voice quavered inaudibly. He pulled her gently to him, and Candace, weak and strangely docile, let him. The warm pressure of his mouth, the bridled strength of his arms, were wondrously reassuring; she felt like a fragile treasure cradled in a protective, powerful embrace.

And then an electric spark seemed to course through him. His kiss turned fiery and passionate, and her lips parted helplessly before the erotic demands of his mouth. Her pathetic defences crumbled and her breath quickened as she was pulled fiercely closer and forcibly made aware of the hard, long length of him. His hands caressed and explored her back, moulding her to him, and the spark that was in him seemed to leap through his fingertips to her, so that her body tingled and throbbed with excitement. She found herself responding, tentatively at first as she buried her hands in Anthony's thick, curly hair, but then with growing and uncontrollable passion. Dazedly, she was aware of being pulled down on to the chaise-longue and pushed back into a half- reclining position among the cushions. She lost track of everything except those sensual lips kissing her mouth, her forehead, her cheeks, then burning a fiery path over her skin as they tantalisingly travelled down her throat, down further to the V-neck of her sundress. Sanity returned only when she felt his hand slip under the fabric to caress her breast. 'Anthony, please!' she murmured frantically, feeling her heart knocking against her collarbone. , At first he ignored her words, claiming her lips again, inciting her body to respond with increasingly novel and confusing sensations. When, breathing roughly, he finally broke off the kiss and raised his head, Candace tried to pull herself together. 'Please stop, you're not being fair,' she pleaded, pushing him away. 'And you've made your point,' she said with bitter emphasis. 'I'm afraid of you because I'm attracted to you. But any girl in her right mind should run like crazy if you so much as look at her.' 'Why? Do you think I delight in taking advantage of every woman I meet?' Mockery gleamed in his dark eyes.

'No, not delight! Revel is more like it.' She flung the words at him. 'Love for a man like you is nothing but a string of conquests and when you're done with them you toss them away like old toys. There's always another woman eager and willing to jump into your bed, isn't there?' Candace didn't quite know what she was talking about, but it felt awfully good to let her bottled-up emotions pour out in a torrent of angry words. 'And after that one there's still another! And then another!' Anthony waited with apparent indifference until she had finished. 'Quite a damning commentary from a girl who knows nothing whatever about me. Are snap judgments about people you don't know habitual with you?' he asked cuttingly, his mouth thinning into a hard line. 'It's not a snap judgment. I can tell just by looking at you,' she retorted furiously. 'Oh, I see—a conclusion well founded on years of experience with men, right?' The sarcasm in his voice made her see red. She was about to respond angrily, but stopped abruptly; his eyes had narrowed and she could see a dark, dangerous power in his gaze. 'You don't know the first thing about men, or about the world,' he said evenly, his lips set, 'and I think it's time you learned.' 'You're not going to teach me anything!' she cried shakily. Unnerved by his threat—was it a threat?—and holding back childish tears, she jumped up to confront him. 'I loathe you, and if you don't get out of this room this minute I'm going to scream!'Anthony laughed. 'And bring the whole crew? You're really anxious to get us on page one, aren't you?'

'Oh, you rotten, miserable . . .' spluttered Candace. She caught up one of the chaise-longue pillows and threw it at him. He caught it easily and tossed it back on the chaise-longue, then sauntered to the door, his laughter floating across the room. Opening the door, he turned. 'Did I once call you a stray kitten? Wildcat's more like it.' He smiled, then added tauntingly before he pulled the door closed behind him, 'Taming you is going to be quite amusing!'

CHAPTER FIVE 'CLEAR the set!' 'Clear the set!' Like an echo, the cry resounded over the large floating platform moored off the yacht's port side. Crew members and actors not in the scene moved out of the camera range as Candace and Trent Howard put on their face masks and perched on the narrow railing, their backs to the sea. Candace stifled a sigh as a make-up woman checked to see that she hadn't mussed her hair when putting on the mask. Eleven takes, she counted wearily to herself, eleven takes so far, of this one scene. Another make-up girl was re- brushing Trent's thick, blond, meticulously styled hair. An amateur diver, Trent Howard, the charismatic male lead, had insisted on doing his own underwater scenes. 'Quiet on the set, this is a take!' called Max, as the make-up people retreated. Holding a walkie-talkie to his ear, he motioned to Candace and Trent, warning them to get ready. She saw him speaking into the mouthpiece and knew he was speaking to Anthony, who sat in the makeshift control room of the yacht, which was part of a closed-circuit TV system. By watching on the video monitors—some hooked to cameras above the water, and others to ones beneath— Anthony could see the action from above as well as below the surface of the water. Anthony Belmont . . . sometimes out of her sight but rarely out of her mind. The last week had been rather anti-climactic, after that scene the

first night aboard, Candace reflected slightly ruefully. She had spent a long, sleepless night thinking up withering retorts, and planning evasive tactics should he ever get within three feet of her, but she had yet to put any of them to use. She wondered just when Anthony thought he was going to have the time to make good his threat. The man never did anything but work, even, it seemed, to the exclusion of sleep. The dawn-to-dark schedule he had mentioned obviously did not apply to him. He was up long before daylight every morning to review the previous day's takes, and huddled with Max, revising the next day's shooting, when she went to bed. 'Action!' said Max, automatically recalling Candace to the business at hand. She watched while the bored man holding the slate thrust it in front of the now-rolling camera and smartly rapped the hinged top. Max raised his hand in the air and then lowered it to point directly towards Candace, forefinger extended. At that signal Candace, holding her mask and her regulator mouthpiece firmly to her face, neatly flipped backwards into the deliciously cool water. The blue-green wetness that closed over her was a heavenly change from the furnace-like heat of the Sardinian sun—which was made even fiercer by the spotlights and reflectors needed to eliminate shadows even in the strongest sunlight. If the water had been cold and she'd had to wear a wetsuit instead of the brief white bikini, the heat would have been unbearable. Trent followed a moment later, and when the curtain of bubbles had dissipated, he lightly touched her arm and pointed downward. Within moments the two of them were swimming side by side, their fins moving rhythmically, like two creatures born to the sea. They were twenty feet under the surface, with cameramen, also in scuba gear, swimming in their wake and to one side of them. In this scene she and Trent had been directed to swim casually, exploring here and there at whim, but being careful to stay together

and not outdistance the cameramen. In the next scene—if they ever got this one right—they would discover the Spanish galleon, a replica of which the props department had already sunk in a shallower section of the small bay. Once in the sea, released from the bonds of gravity, Candace—as always—revelled in the freedom of movement. Effortless, gentle flicks of rubber-finned feet propelled her and Trent forward into the dazzling turquoise water, lit by shafts of sunlight percolating down from the shining, silvery skin of the surface. At the sight of an interesting-looking plant or patch of coral, a flip of her hand could send her spinning in a new direction, although she had to be careful not to do so without alerting Trent. Her heady excitement with diving in new waters had more than once been responsible for re-takeson the first day of filming, when she had forgotten to signal Trent and consequently swum too far from his side, so that the cameramen couldn't keep them both within range of a single lens. A quick recall to the surface and a tongue-lashing by Anthony had followed in short order. Try to remember you're being paid to work, Miss Hillyer, not to enjoy yourself!' he thundered, impaling her with a scathing look. 'Well, you did say to explore naturally,' she said meekly. 'It's only natural to change course at the sight of something unusual.' 'I said to pretend to explore naturally, dammit,' he returned sarcastically. 'There's a big difference!' That very same day she had forgotten again and was quickly flagged down by a cameraman. Fully expecting a tirade, or perhaps to be torn to pieces and flung to the fish, Candace obeyed the summons to the surface with a rapidly thumping heartbeat. -

Disconcertingly, she discovered a patient, smiling Anthony giving her a friendly hand out of the water. She was discovering that Anthony Belmont, whatever else he was, was not in the least predictable. 'Take a break, Candace, I've worked you too long, and you must be exhausted,' he said, his voice so friendly and his beautiful brown eyes so soft that her heart raced even faster and seemed to do a flip-flop as well. 'We'll try again in half an hour.' As the week passed, Candace had discovered that he had a variety of what she first took to be moods, but after closer observation determined were techniques—and very masterfully employed techniques, that got the best possible performance out of every actor and actress in the cast. She also soon found out that the crew and cast all felt that he was one of Hollywood's finest directors. 'Oh, he's a slavedriver and an absolute fanatic on details,' one of the grips had told her, then added with a grin, 'and there's not one person on this set who doesn't feel lucky to work for him.' A tap on the shoulder brought Candace back to the present. Trent was pointing at a nine-inch-long bluefish that had just darted out from between the green stalks of posidonia weed below them. They allowed their bodies to drift down until they were just a couple of feet above the two-foot-high weed that carpeted the bottom of the bay. Several more fish popped out, like underwater jack-in-the- boxes, and hung, quivering, smack in front of them. They had been seeing very few fish of any kind, and Candace was charmed. As the last of the bluefish darted back into the weedy shadows Trent held up his watch and tapped it. Reluctantly, Candace followed him upward through the water, blinking when she broke through into the brilliant sunlight. At least the sun was almost down, she noted with relief, suddenly realising how tired she was. Crew members were there to help them back on to the floating platform, and Candace gratefully accepted their assistance.

'Okay, kill the lights,' Max called. 'It's a wrap!' 'Thank goodness,' Candace sighed to Trent, 'I'm exhausted!' Around them were the now-familiar sights and sounds of a day's shooting coming to an end: the camera crew busily unloading the raw footage and packing it for the courier to take to Rome so it could be developed overnight; prop and lighting grips chattering as they stowed away and secured the equipment for the night; and best of all, stewards moving among them all with bedewed pitchers of cold soft drinks and iced fruit juice. 'How did you like the bluefish?' asked Trent as they peeled off their gear. 'They popped out as if they were on cue. We ought to put them on the payroll—I wonder if they belong to the union.' Candace laughed. She liked Trent and had found him a pleasant companion during the numerous lulls between takes, even if he was an undeterrable flirt. The fact that she was engaged didn't slow him down in the slightest, but since he didn't seem terribly disappointed at her failure to respond to any of his suggestions—some discreet, some not so discreet—she suspected that he was merely playing the role that was expected of him, on and off the screen. 'We haven't been seeing very many fish, that's for sure,' she said, comparing the sparkling-clear but virtually empty Mediterranean with the colder, murkier California waters, thickly infested with luxuriant kelp forests and teeming with marine life. 'I'm beginning to see why people call the Mediterranean a lifeless ocean.' 'It isn't, really,' replied Trent, sitting on a deck chair to take off his fins, 'but the clarity of the water is a deceptive gift when it comes down to it. Being able to set a hundred feet in any direction ought to make it great for the divers—and it would if the fish couldn't see just as well. But

they can.' He looked up from unbuckling a fin to let his eyes travel lingeringly down Candace's slender, tan body, barely covered by the brief bikini. 'At the sight of a diver—even one as delectable as you are—the rock-dwellers sink deeper into cover and the wide- ranging ones dash for the open sea.' She ignored his aside, and frowned. .'I wouldn't mind if I just got occasional glimpses of a caudal fin when a fish took off, but the cameramen scare them all away before we even get into the water,' she complained, as she accepted a huge paper cup of orange juice from the steward. She passed a soft drink on to Trent. 'And this is probably the only chance I'll ever have to dive here.' 'What? Surely Anthony isn't going to be one of those cruel husbands who's going to expect you to stay at home minding the hearth and never go out without him, is he?' asked Trent in playfully shocked tones. 'Why, he comes here at least once a year to visit his grandparents.' A faint touch of colour rose to Candace's cheeks. Although she had to confess she tended to forget her simulated engagement, it would help matters if Anthony at least took the time to fill her in on little things like the existence of relatives in the area, so she wouldn't sound like a complete fool. 'I forgot for a moment that my life's going to change when I marry,' she said lightly, giving Trent a sheepish grin. 'I'm used to thinking of myself as an impecunious student.' 'I'm beginning to see why you landed a big fish like Anthony Belmont,' Trent said appreciatively. 'Most women in your position would be busy calculating how best—not to mention how fast—to spend his money. And,' he added drily, 'I am speaking from painful experience; what with two insatiable ex-wives to support.' He looked over Candace's shoulder. 'Speaking of the devil . . .'

'Well done, both of you,' said Anthony. He draped an arm casually around Candace's shoulders. 'Tired, darling?' 'A little,' she confessed, wishing for the umpteenth time that her heart wouldn't accelerate so in his presence, or when he used those meaningless endearments. 'I wish I could give you the day off tomorrow, but this weather's too perfect to waste,' he said, but he sounded more amused than apologetic. 'Oh, I'll make an early night of it. I'll be fine tomorrow,' said Candace, wryly wishing she hadn't been so naive on that first day, when she'd lectured Anthony on the way Hollywood people spent most of their time lying around on beaches. And that had been only the first of her misconceptions, she mused later that evening, as she prepared for bed—the first of many, unfortunately. In some ways it was amazing that Anthony was the slightest bit attracted to her—if indeed he honestly was. With all the women he had to choose from, why did he seem to like her, at least a little? And why, sometimes, did his eyes seem to burn with disdain for her? She sighed as she turned back the bedclothes. There was so much in life about which she was ignorant. Be truthful, Candace, she scolded, ignorance isn't the problem—with the information explosion, no one can possibly know everything about everything these days. No, the problem was her smug, self-righteous confidence that she already knew everything she really needed to know. She sighed again. These were not things she wanted to think about. She opened up Marine Life in the Mediterranean and forced herself to read until she dropped off to sleep.

It had been a mistake to retire early, she realised when she awakened in the small hours of the night. She hadn't been fatigued, really; it was more a feeling of restlessness and confinement. And sleep had provided her with little relief, for she'd been plagued by dreams—some appallingly sensual—of the man who slept two doors down. She opened her porthole and looked out over the bay of black velvet and the sleeping land beyond it. A few lights still twinkled on La Maddalena, the island itself an inky black shape against a sky of midnight blue. Other lights bobbed up and down; these would be from the pleasure craft moored out in the bay. The night air, stirred by a wisp of a breeze, played on her face, moving tendrils of hair softly over her forehead. It was very cool, and very quiet, and very lovely under the dome of stars, and the deck seemed infinitely more appealing than her hot and tumbled bed. She didn't bother to dress, merely slipping on the long green terrycloth caftan that doubled as robe and beach cover-up. No one could possibly be awake, but just to make sure, she put her head through the doorway and peered cautiously down the corridor. To her surprise, Max and Leslie had both gone to bed, but there was still a light coming from under Anthony's stateroom door. It was after two. The nerve of Anthony Belmont, calling her a workaholic! Compared to him she was a work teetotaller! The last thing in the world she wanted was to run into him, so she took her sandals off and tiptoed silently down the companionway—holding her breath as she passed his door—and out on to the deck and into the startling beauty of the full moon, which hadn't been visible from her porthole. A lustrous, glowing fairyland silver, perfectly round, it hung in the sky like a great, magical disc, its beams reflected in a shimmery band of pewter on the placid sea. Even the wooden deck gleamed darkly in its radiance.

There were no deck chairs in sight, so on impulse, Candace climbed on to the deck railing to perch and take in the moonlit scene, but the railing was narrower than it appeared and she nearly toppled off. Steadying herself with her hands, she hooked her ankles around a second rail that ran parallel to the one she was on, about two feet below it. Now her long skirt got in the way and again she almost toppled over. At that point she gave it up as a bad idea, but before she could hop down she heard footsteps behind her. With her heart in her mouth—something told her who it was—she turned and looked into Anthony's angry brown eyes. 'What the hell are you doing up there,' he asked irritatedly, 'besides trying to break your neck?' 'Actually, I was just coming down. . . It's a little less secure up here than I thought it would be.' He let out his breath in an exasperated sigh and took her weight effortlessly, his strong hands going around her waist. Then he let her slowly slide through his hands until her feet reached the deck. To her acute embarrassment, it must have been evident to him that she hadn't anything on under her caftan. 'Thank you,' she said, flustered and dismayed at how her body tingled at his touch. She moved to evade his hands which rested far too near the swell of her breasts, but he dropped them down to her waist again and held her firmly. He was not squeezing her, but the power in his hands, in his entire lithe body, was unmistakable and filled her with a sort of delicious dread. 'Restless?' he asked softly. 'I guess so,' she answered weakly, her heart pounding and her knees absurdly weak. 'You're up rather late yourself, aren't you?'

'When we're shooting there are nights when I don't get to sleep at all.' He reached up and brushed back the curtain of her hair that halfobscured her face. 'You've been a real trooper this week. You've worked hard and you haven't complained about not being able to go on shore with the rest. And I know the evenings must be dreary for you, with Leslie, Max and me eating on the run and i working until all hours.' A gentle warmth spread through her at this unexpected praise, but she stared down, willing herself not to look up and meet his eyes. But he wasn't giving her the choice. After tucking her hair gently behind her ear, his fingers travelled lightly along her cheek—could he feel her skin trembling?—and moved to her chin, tilting it up, forcing her to look at him. 'The first rainy day we get, we'll have an outing, you and I. I'll show you a little of Sardinia.' He said it innocently enough, but in the bright moonlight she saw amusement lurking in his deep brown eyes, and something else, something indefinable and hypnotic. So much for all those evasive tactics, she reflected hazily, that she was going to use if he ever got near her again. Instead she stood there entranced as his mouth touched hers—lightly at first, and then warmly and seductively, coaxing from her the response he knew was there. Unable to resist, her lips parted voluntarily, and as his lips explored her mouth and his hands moved caressingly over her back her body melted against him. A sweet bright flame flickered inside her, then flared and swelled. She was floating in sensations, sinking in them, drowning ... The faint but penetrating sound of scraping canvas wrenched Candace rudely to herself. 'What the hell—' muttered Anthony, pulling away from her abruptly. He shot over to a lifeboat, roughly peeled back the canvas cover, and hauled out a young, slightly scrawny male by the scruff of his neck.'

'Mi scusi, signore? he said cheerfully, when he'd found stable footing, 'but your many fans and admirers, they are anxiously waiting for an indepth story on your record-breaking, whirlwind courtship . . .' He looked up expectantly, as grinning and confident as if he had just made a royal entrance, instead of having been pulled from a musty lifeboat and dumped unceremoniously on the deck. Anthony sighed in annoyance. 'It's a long swim for a chance interview,' he drawled in studied casualness. Shrugging nonchalantly, the young man jerked a thumb over his shoulder and said, 'I rented a boat. Now, is it true that—' 'Good, you have transportation back, then.' Anthony moved swiftly towards him. 'But, signore, I've spent hours in that lifeboat waiting—' spluttered the youth, as Anthony swung him easily up over his shoulder, then turned and unceremoniously tossed him overboard. A loud splash cut off his words. Candace, wide-eyed, peered over the side and saw a dark head surface, to be followed by a shrill, rapid stream of Italian. She understood not a word, but had no trouble grasping the intent. 'One of the paparazzi she asked. 'How did you guess?' said Anthony, his voice turning faintly husky again as he moved towards her. But Candace had no intention of starting again where they'd left off. 'Shall we make sure he reaches his boat?' she asked, feigning a casualness she didn't feel. Without waiting for an answer, she started walking down the deck, following the luckless reporter's wake.

'Paparazzi would never drown,' Anthony stated flatly, reluctantly following her, 'even when it serves them right.' 'But he didn't do any real harm,' she objected as they reached the stern and saw him climb out, wet and shiny, into a tiny boat tied to the platform. In fact, she thought wryly to herself, the poor man had done her quite a favour. 'You don't think so?' Anthony responded, frowning faintly, as they turned and strolled back. 'Maybe a single incident like that seems like nothing, but, believe me, every intrusion adds up. It can utterly ruin your private life, if you let it get out of hand.' 'But it can add quite a lot to your private life too, can't it?' she said, then added with a touch of sarcasm in her voice, 'After all, with all the publicity you get, aren't you pleased to find women lining up in droves for a chance at you?' 'And you think that kind of empty relationship is something I want?' His tone was curt. 'No, I guess not,' Candace said meekly, on a moment's reflection. 'I'm sorry—it was a silly, tactless thing to say.' 'Sometimes I wonder if you work so hard at thinking up tactless, silly remarks to say to me just out of frustration.' 'Frustration?' she echoed, astonished. 'Yes, 'frustration.' There was asperity in his voice. 'On the first day we met you made a snap judgment; you stereotyped me as a frivolous Hollywood type who never—absolutely never— worked hard at anything except chasing girls. Now, to your chagrin, you're having a hard time making the label stick. Hence your frustration.' He gave her a sardonic smile. 'Quite obvious, really.'

'Don't tell me part of your training to become a movie director was in psychology!' she retorted, angry at how accurately his dart had strode home. 'Precisely, though acquired more on the job than in a classroom.' They had reached the companion- way hatch and he leaned against the cabin house side, hands in his pockets, studying her. 'Actors and actresses have tremendous egos. It's practically a requirement for success; how else would they get the courage to step in front of a camera and perform for millions of people, half of whom think they could do it better, given the chance? For a director to get the best performance from them, he has to know a great deal about how minds like that work, how any minds work.' 'I'll admit you make a case for knowing something about the kind of people you work with,' Candace said coldly, her chin defiantly tilted, 'but that doesn't mean you know anything about me.' 'You?' he chuckled, then drawled, 'I can read you like a book, and frankly, I don't like everything I see. I don't much like your habit of filing people away in little boxes, and I can't say I care for that single-minded, stultifying seriousness of youth.' Stultifying seriousness ... it made her sound like a bloodless, boring old drudge. The biting words wounded her more than she could have thought possible. 'I couldn't care less what you like or don't like about me, Mr Belmont.' She spoke with icy formality, wishing she had the courage to slap that mocking look off his face. 'But fortunately for you, as soon as I've finished this job you'll never have to lay eyes on me as long as you live.' 'Oh, but I want to,' he said with surprisingly good humour. 'You have a few good points too, after all, You're bright, you're enthusiastic, you're

intelligent. And I've watched you when Chuck's brought newspapers aboard. Your unfailing reaction to those articles about us—some wildly distorted, even by paparazzi standards—has been amusement.' His voice became more serious, his eyes, softer and more grave. 'Not too many women are self-confident enough to be genuinely indifferent to publicity, good or bad. And not only that, but you haven't tried to turn this phoney "engagement" of ours into any material benefit for yourself, despite the fact that you must barely be able to make ends meet.' As he spoke his intent eyes magnetically held hers. 'You know, Candace, if you let yourself learn from real life and not just from your textbooks you could mature into a really beautiful woman—and I'm not talking about physical beauty; that you've already got in full measure.' Her green eyes opened wide, and his smile broadened at her surprise. Candace struggled to hold on to her anger in the face of his unexpected compliments—for stunning compliments they were despite all the qualifications—knowing how frustratingly easy it was for this surprising man to breach her defences. 'In fact,' he continued huskily, 4I can think of some very enjoyable ways of broadening your horizons.' It was startlingly clear to her now that he saw her as a challenge and would never be content until he had subjugated her. But what would he do with her then? Become bored and toss her away? She didn't know, and to tell the truth she was afraid to find out. How many challenges had there been before her? Where were they now? 'No, thanks, I can just imagine what you have in mind,' she muttered, distraught, then she tried to put some steel in her voice. 'When I decide to broaden those horizons, it certainly won't be with you!' Anthony laughed—a mocking, cruel laugh, it seemed to her. As he moved his head the moonlight caught his cheek and the firm line of his

jaw so that the taut skin stretched over them gleamed like old ivory. 'Time will tell,' he said enigmatically, and glanced at his watch. 'Speaking of time, the courier will be back with the dailies in just a couple of hours, and I need some sleep before I view them. So do you; you have a full day ahead tomorrow.' 'Goodnight, then, Mr Belmont,' she said frigidly, more than willing to call it a night. His self- confidence put her teeth on edge, and his physical nearness did a lot more than that. She moved to pass him, but he reached out and halted her. The touch of that strong, warm hand on her arm, even through cloth, sent tremors crawling down her back. 'By the way, Miss Hillyer,' he said, mimicking her formality, 'I have enough on my mind right now without the distraction that you present when you wander around in the moonlight so seductively clothed, and so very ripe for the picking.' His eyes glittered with amusement; even in the moonlight he could see the colour rising on her cheeks. 'So in the future, please be thoughtful enough to dress a bit more thoroughly for your night-time ramblings.'

CHAPTER SIX BELOW them, at the bottom of the shallow bay, lay the eerie and romantic skeleton of a seventeenth- century Spanish galleon, its ruined masts and timbers shimmering and wavering in the sun-shot, clear water, its rusted cannons glinting evilly. Trent reached the mouldering wreck slightly ahead of Candace and turned to let her catch up. On three sides of them cameramen hung suspended in the water, while she and Trent, pretending excitement, explored the hulk. It's a good thing this ship is a product of the props department and not the real thing, thought Candace, as she tugged at a hatch cover. Treasure-hunting in real life was full of dangers— moray eels hiding in crevices, treacherous rotted wood and metal with unexpected projections that tangled air hoses and tore flesh, shifting, clutching sands and mud—all of which far outweighed the probable rewards. In addition, it usually cost more to locate a wreck and salvage it than the booty was worth—if the government under whose jurisdiction it lay even let you keep it. And as for the beauty of it all, ships that had lain under water for centuries, battered by tides and caved-in from pressure and decay, looked nothing like this fantasy about which she was hovering. In fact, she knew they often didn't look much like anything beyond a lumpy, commonplace reef crusted with coral and marine vegetation. Trent joined her at the hatch cover and together they got it open, startling the resident octopus— especially imported for the occasion from an aquarium. It was hard not to be playful about it all, she thought, almost giggling as the frightened octopus pulsed away. It was simply too much like a sophisticated underwater ride at Disneyland, complete with casks of jewels and coins to be found behind sagging doors. And she was, in fact, enjoying herself immensely, just as she had one glorious day spent at Disneyland with her parents, not long before her mother had died. Indeed, she had been having a great deal

of fun since they had started filming this sequence a week ago—not that she'd ever confess it to Anthony Belmont! A cameraman swam in front of her, carrying a slate on which he had written, 'It's a wrap!' and Candace reluctantly turned and swam towards the surface. Its flat, silvery sheen, seen from below, was more muted that it had been just thirty minutes earlier when she had entered the water, so when she surfaced she wasn't surprised to see that some clouds had built up. She was surprised, however, at how quickly her heart began to race at the thought of a break in the filming. Was she frightened at the prospect of that 'outing' Anthony had mentioned, or was she thrilled at it? She didn't know. She didn't seem to know much about anything these days, when it came down to it, least of all herself. Her feelings had been in turmoil since that accidental meeting in the moonlight—since then, she had stayed strictly in her stateroom after dark— and sometimes she hardly knew what she was thinking or feeling. But she did know what he had said had torn gaping holes in her conception of herself and the world around her. Stultifying seriousness. . .just thinking the words brought the warmth to her cheeks. 'Hey, it looks like rain!' Trent cried gleefully, surfacing beside her and breaking into her thoughts. He shook the water out of his hair the way a dog does. 'Time off! Anthony and Max will be pulling their hair out if it lasts more than a day, but I know just the resort I'm heading for to while away a few hours. And how about you?' 'I don't know.' Treading water, Candace tilted up her face mask to rest on her forehead. 'It depends on whether Anthony has any plans.' As they swam leisurely towards the platform, she took in the panorama of islands around her. Sardinia did look inviting. For a

moment she wished it was Trent whose job it was to keep an eye on her. Inexperienced as she was, she knew she could handle him, and she was sure he would be a pleasant and relaxing companion on an excursion to the countryside. With Anthony she was going to be anything but relaxed. Trent must have seen the touch of longing on her face as her eyes played over the horizon; as soon as they had been helped on to the platform and had taken off their fins, he drew her slightly off to one side. 'You know, it's about time you got off this barge and saw some of the sights. I'm pretty good at smuggling ladies off for a bit of fun.' He gave her a boyish smile. 'Had lots of practice.' 'I always knew you were a man of many talents,' drawled a deep, studiedly casual voice behind them. Candace jumped at the sound, but Trent just turned and grinned engagingly. 'Caught me in the act, Anthony, old boy!' 'Just so long as it doesn't go beyond words. Old boy,' replied Anthony coolly. He didn't look or sound particularly angry, but there was something in his eyes and a steely quality to his voice, and together they translated as an unmistakable warning: If I find you trying to trespass on my territory again, I won't be so tolerant. As if she was anyone's territory, Candace thought, irritated at both of them; at Trent because his offer was made half in jest, and at Anthony for carrying this sham engagement to such ridiculous lengths. She might have given both of them a piece of her mind, but Leslie joined them.

'The Weather Bureau forecasts rain tomorrow all right, Anthony,' she said, giving Candace and Trent an acknowledging nod, 'but the storm's a small one—shouldn't last more than a day.' 'It better not or we'll be over budget,' grumbled Anthony. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, then shrugged philosophically. 'Oh well,' he said, 'everyone can use a break, and I'll be able to take Candace to visit my grandparents.' He draped an amiable arm around her shoulders, for all the world like a loving fiance. 'I've been getting daily calls from them.' He shook his head. 'They've never been so insistent about anything!' Candace smiled demurely. He was playing his part to the hilt, and she might as well do the same, even if he wasn't serious. But he was. As soon as Trent and Leslie had ambled off, he said, 'We'll leave for Oristano at four-thirty in the morning. I want to make sure we give any diehard reporters the slip. So get a good night's sleep—no two a.m. deck strolls!' Without waiting for her to reply he turned and left her standing there, dripping and bewildered. His grandparents? To Candace's surprise, the prospect of meeting Anthony's relatives made her nervous, and the next morning she found herself standing uncertainly before her opened stateroom closet. 'This is ridiculous,' she muttered, debating with herself on which of her few dresses was the most attractive. 'Why should I care what his relatives think about me? It's not as if they'll ever see me again after today.' Disturbed by her uncharacteristic indecision, she reached out and deliberately took her simplest dress—a long-sleeved, green cotton, shirtwaisted one—off the hanger and put it on. 'Let them think I'm unstylish,' she said to the world at large, 'since that's what I happen to be.' She brushed her hair, twisted it into a knot at the top of her head,

and walked firmly up to the deck, steeling herself for Anthony's reaction. The satisfied nod of approval he gave her before helping her down the ladder to the waiting launch floored her. 'Nonna will love you.' 'Nonna?' 'It means Grandmother. Shell like the demure dress,' he explained. 'In her day ladies didn't show their bare shoulders or even their arms, and even now she's scandalised when one of my cousins visits in a sleeveless dress.' Candace responded with a touch of asperity in her voice. 'Frankly, I wasn't trying to win family approval. I meant them to think I was too unsophisticated for you.' Then, feeling a pang of guilt, she added, 'Anthony, is it really necessary to deceive them? Can't we tell them the engagement's not for real and explain the whole situation?' 'I was thinking along those lines myself,' said Anthony, with a bemused expression on his face. His abstraction lasted for the rest of the short boat ride to the Sardinian mainland, and Candace sat silently, gazing at the grey, choppy bay, so different from yesterday's transparent blue-green water. Instead of pleasing her, the words had depressed her. What in the world was the matter with her? She couldn't—she just couldn't—be letting herself fall in love with him. Her subconscious mind wouldn't be that treacherous, would it? Never, she told herself resolutely. A gentle rain had started to fall by the time the helmsman dropped them off at Palau's large dock, where a low-slung red Ferrari was waiting for them in the parking lot. As they were walking to it, a flicker of lightning over the sea was followed closely by a clap of thunder and a downpour as sudden and drenching as if someone had

overturned a bucket on them. They ran the last few yards to the car through sand that turned to red mud under their feet. Despite the driving rain, Anthony insisted on opening her door and seeing her tucked inside. 'You'd have stayed drier if you'd let me open my own door,' she admonished, when he got into the driver's seat. 'But it would have been rather ungentlemanly of me, wouldn't it?' he drawled, giving her a slow, lazy smile, as he started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot. 'From my experience you've been ungentlemanly whenever it suited you,' she mocked lightly as they sped through the small town and out on to a winding country road. 'But I must confess I could relax more if I thought this was a sign that you planned on being a perfect gentleman today.' She paused. 'At least I could forget about being on my guard,' she added, uneasily conscious of how close to him she was; the bucket seats and narrow interior of the sports car forced an intimacy on them, whether she liked it or not. He took his eyes off the road briefly, and Candace caught the full force of his gaze, a mingling of sardonic humour and something indefinable but definitely more dangerous. Her heartbeat quickened, and she quickly turned away to look out the window. 'If you're worried about my seducing you under some cork tree in the woods, don't be,' he replied languidly. 'For one thing, it's too wet, and for another, I like my women ready and willing.' 'Then I can definitely relax and enjoy myself/ she retorted promptly, picking up the road map from the dashboard and opening it, 'because I have no intentions of ever being either.' 'Oh? I'll remind you of that some day,' he returned maddeningly.

'Cork trees,' said Candace, deciding a change of subject was in order, 'I've never seen one.' Then she laughed. 'Actually, I've never seen much of anything that can't be found within a hundred miles of the Monterey Peninsula. And they don't have any cork trees there.' 'Then we'll have to find you one on the way.' 'Where did you say your grandparents live?' she asked, studying the map in her lap. 'Near Oristano. It's on the west coast, about halfway down the island. There's a beautiful ancient city nearby called Tharros. It's a ruin now—and has been for over a thousand years—but that only makes it more lovely. We'll make a detour to it, if you like.' 'I'd love it. Was it built by the Romans?' He shook his head. 'Its origins go back even further... to the Phoenicians.' 'I should have brought an Italian history book along too,' said Candace regretfully, 'to read in the evenings.' 'As a companion to your marine biology textbooks and that field guide I see you reading on every work break?' he asked drily, then added, 'Do you never read anything just for fun?' 'Frankly, I think you're being hypocritical, Anthony Belmont,' Candace scoffed. 'You don't do anything but work, yourself. When we're not filming, you're planning the next day's shots, or reviewing the dailies or whatever you call them. You said yourself that sometimes you don't get to sleep at all.' 'That's true, Candace, but there's a difference between being a simple workaholic and being a high performer, an achiever.'

She looked irately at him, her eyes flashing. 'I see. And I suppose that you just happen to be a high performer and I just happen to be a workaholic. A simple workaholic.' His eyes were on the road so that his face was profiled, even-featured and straight-nosed, as cleanly chiselled as a marble bust of Apollo. 'That's right,' he said blandly, 'but there's no "just happen" about it. I balance my long hours with time off; you don't.' She frowned. 'You obviously need time off, and I don't. So what's the harm in my working, if that's what I like doing?' 'There's a lot of harm. People who grind on and on, discounting their personal lives, either burn themselves out or build up a chronic—and very unhealthy—stress overload. Knowing that, high performers take time off to develop friendships; they learn to prize recreation time.' He shot her a quick glance. 'I once suggested you look up "recreation". Did you?' 'No.' She had forgotten all about it. He didn't seem annoyed. 'Recreation. Recreation. It means to create anew, to restore, to refresh—so one can return to work invigorated, looking for new challenges.' 'That's fine for you,' she persisted, 'but I don't need it. Besides,' she added with a small grin, 'I have all the challenges I can handle right now, thank you.' He laughed softly in return. 'Let me put it this way, Candace. High performers work because they want to achieve, and there isn't much worth achieving that doesn't take hard work. But workaholics work long hours as a substitute for the achievement they lack, or to avoid something painful in their lives, or from fear of failure.' His voice

became more gentle. 'I don't think you fear failure . . . No, I suspect it's fear of something else.' She should have been angry with him; she knew that, but there was something in his voice that she hadn't heard before—a soft quality of support, of caring. 'It isn't fear of anything,' she said dully. 'There just isn't time to do everything that needs to be done.' She was quiet for a moment, staring unseeing at the rainy countryside whizzing by, listening to her words echo weirdly in her ears . . . What was it about them? 'It's funny,' she said finally, in a forlorn voice that barely seemed to be her own. 'Those are the last words my mother said to me. "There isn't time enough to do everything that needs to be done." And then she ran back to the grocery store for the carton of cottage cheese she'd left behind. She was killed by a truck.' Candace breathed deeply, feeling the hot, tight pressure of tears against the backs of her eyes. 'You know, I'd forgotten that.' 'And so,' Anthony said slowly, 'you set about making sure you used every minute of every day productively, in an irrational attempt to appease God, perhaps, hoping you wouldn't be snatched away too.' He paused to shift into a lower gear as the road rose into the steep hills. 'And then when your father died—good Lord, it must have been a nightmare for you—there was no one to force you to slow down once in a while.' What he said sounded like the simplistic pop psychology she abhorred, but pop psychology or not, there was a disturbing element of truth in it—more than an element. She lowered her head to look blindly at her hands clenched tightly together in her lap and fought to hold back the brimming tears.

Anthony's strong hand suddenly covered both of hers and squeezed them, warm and comforting. 'Look, Candace, I'm only suggesting that there's more to life than work, and that you're not a bad person if you enjoy the good things life has to offer. It's what makes you a whole person—and I think you'll find out in the long run that your studies aren't going to suffer if you pay some attention to that whole person. You're—' He took his hand abruptly away—it was like the loss of a warm embrace on a cold day—and brought the car to a halt. Ahead, visible between the regular swipes of the windshield wipers, a flock of longfleeced sheep, gambolling lambs among them, were spilling down the hillside and crossing the road ahead of them, streaming with rain. Behind them came an ancient shepherd, hunched against the storm in his goatskin cape, a dog at his heels. The long staff in his hand came down rhythmically, almost hypnotically, ate very other step, and as he crossed the muddy road in front of them he seemed to be deep inside himself, unaware of the gleaming Ferrari that waited humming for him to pass. The timeless and bucolic picture provided Candace with a needed distraction from her jumbled thoughts. She might have been a timetraveller in a sleek red time machine, looking out on a scene that had existed a hundred years before, or a thousand, or five thousand. 'How lovely!' she exclaimed. 'And how nice to see there are still shepherds.' She supposed it was a silly thing to say, but there certainly weren't any around Monterey. Anthony, sensing her need for conversational change, began to tell her about the Sardinian shepherd's solitary life, which had indeed altered hardly at all through the centuries. And Candace, calmed by his deep, soothing voice, felt her composure return. Only half listening, but somehow hearing everything he said, she became absorbed in the rainy countryside, which grew more rugged and exotic with every mile they sped into it. There were desolate, bare mountains, dotted with

giant boulders of amazing shapes—a bear, a man's hawk- nosed profile—a flop-eared dog; undulating plains that«&med to roll for ever through the slackening, misty rain; more flocks of sheep wandering over the hillsides under the scrutiny of patient shepherds— venerable old men and young boys—and impatient, yapping sheepdogs. Sleepy and tranquil, snug in the warm car, she listened to Anthony's mellow voice and looked out at the wet landscape. Occasionally they drove over dirt or cobblestoned streets through little towns that were cradled by the bleak, rocky hills. In them, old women in voluminous black dresses, the lower parts of their faces decorously covered by black shawls, walked with tightly blue-jeaned young girls who peered out of the see-through plastic windows of polka-dotted umbrellas. In the open country were the most evocative sights of all, strange conical structures, ruined and mossy, built of huge blocks of stone. 'What is it?' Candace exclaimed in admiration when she saw the first one brooding on the slope of a lonely, rugged hillside like a surviving, isolated stone tower from an unthinkably old and vanished castle. 'Ah,' said Anthony, 'that's a nuraghe. Very strange and mysterious. This is the only place in the world they're found—and there are over seven thousand of them still standing here.' 'But what are they for?' 'Nobody knows for sure, and there are a lot of theories. I guess the best one is that they're mega- lithic fortresses, and the people who lived nearby— they're called the Nuraghic people—took refuge in them when they were attacked by other tribes. They're over four thousand years old, that much is known for certain.' Candace craned her neck to catch the last sight of the grim tower, then turned forward again to a vista of rocky plains rising towards the

flanks of a nearly vertical wall of mountains. 'How different the interior is from what little I saw of the coast—the Emerald Coast, did I hear somebody say it was called?' 'Yes,' said Anthony, 'the Costa Smeralda. All those hotels were put up by a foreign consortium, you know. The idea was to build a kind of jet-set playland to rival the Cdte d'Azur.' 'And has it been a success?' 'Yes and no. The resorts are well designed enough, and they blend into the landscape. And the sea is very beautiful—as you know—so more and more visitors are flocking here. I'm sure someone like Trent Howard would think it's terrific.' 'But you don't.' Anthony shrugged. 'I look at it more from the point of view of the Sardinians, and as far as they're concerned, it hasn't made much difference at all. Go fifteen miles inland, and it's the same as it's always been, the same as it is here.' He said it with pride and approval, and waved his hand vaguely at the stark and beautiful land around them. 'Sardinia's a strange place; it's an island, over a hundred miles from the mainland, but the people don't feel an attachment to the sea, and they leave the coast—and all the wealth it could bring—to the foreigners and the tourists.' Candace, hardly believing anyone could resist the call of the sea, shook her head. 'Why?' 'Because the sea is the enemy; it's brought wave after wave of invaders: Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, Arabs, Spaniards . . . It's a long, sad story.'

Anthony turned off the windshield wipers. The rain had stopped now, and there were patches of blue sky. The land seemed to Candace as if it had been washed clean; the very air sparkled. 'And the Sardinians were too proud to bow down or even to blend with any of them,' Anthony continued, 'so they moved inland, by and large, and became mountain folk and shepherds. They're still proud,' he went on, and Candace could hear the pride in his own voice, 'and they consider themselves a race apart from the rest of Italy. They're a masculine, virile people with an extraordinarily strong sense of honour.' He glanced at her and smiled. 'My grandfather is in his eighties, a twentieth-century version of a fierce Sardinian patriarch. Wait till you meet him.' 'I imagine,' said Candace, 'that means he has some firmly held views about women and their place.' 'He does indeed. He believes women belong—' 'Let me guess.' Candace gave him an impish smile. 'At the stove, slaving over the lasagna.' 'Right. In the kitchen.' He looked briefly over at her, one eyebrow raised and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 'And perhaps one other place.' Candace changed the subject quickly. 'That big, spreading tree up there... Is that a cork tree?' she asked brightly, but she was sure she hadn't covered up that traitorous, uncontrollable blush which she knew had climbed to her cheeks. Whether she blushed or not, however, she wasn't going to let him get her off on that particular tack, for underneath Anthony Belmont's smooth urbanity lay the same

primitive, dark masculinity he had just described—inherited no doubt from that Sardinian grandfather of his. But it wasn't only Anthony she was afraid of; she was frightened even more by the feelings that seethed and rolled inside her. It wasn't just that she was sexually attracted to him, it was, she admitted to herself with painful honesty, too late to worry about that. No, it was worse. She was certain she was very close to falling in love with him. Not affection, not fondness, not infatuation. Love. And Candace Hillyer could not come to terms with loving a man who made movies. She was learning quickly enough that her preconceived ideas about Hollywood 'types' were grossly in error, and that the film industry took hard work, dedication, and professionalism; still, it boiled down to much ado about nothing. All that energy expended to produce a silly movie that people would forget a week after they saw it! Not to further man's knowledge or pass it on to a new generation, not to save lives or to alleviate suffering . . . If only Anthony, with his impressive intellect, his ability to manage people, his limitless energies, were in some serious, meaningful profession! If only ... 'Yes, it is.' His voice cut into her thoughts, and Candace looked at him blankly. 'A cork tree.' He pointed to the tree they were passing. 'The cork's made from the bark.' 'Sorry,' she confessed. 'My mind was wandering.' 'Towards food, probably,' he said, giving her a lopsided grin, 'or at least mine is. We'll stop and pick up some things and have a picnic lunch at Tharros.'

Tharros. It seemed to Candace that all of nature had conspired to create this lonely, strange place of magic and haunting beauty. With Anthony she wandered the ancient streets, strolling on uneven flagstones worn into ruts by countless wooden wheels centuries before. The fresh warmth of the sun blended with the dampness left by the storm to fill the air with the tingling scents of lush grasses and wildflowers; and fluffy, scattered clouds floated like so many galleons in full sail on an ocean of cornflower blue. For a long time the two of them moved silently among the deserted ruins of white marble, hearing only the sounds of the wind, the hiss of the emerald green sea on the rocks below, and the twittering songs of larks and warblers darting among the green shrubs that sprouted up between fallen pillars. 'Did you tuck away a bathing suit in your bag?' Anthony asked suddenly, after they had walked through much of the old city. Candace, trying to resist the spell of Tharros— and of Anthony Belmont—was by now wishing heartily that they didn't have this enchanted city to themselves, and she hesitated before answering. She had been a conscious of Anthony as of the ruins around them—of his tall, clean-lined figure, his graceful stride, his wide shoulders under the perfectly-tailored linen jacket, and especially of his dark eyes playing over her face from time to time. 'Suit?' she queried, hardly hearing trim. 'Why . . . yes. You told me to.' 'Good,' he said promptly. 'A swim, and then we eat.' He was already in the water as Candace emerged from behind a jumble of weathered, fallen marble columns in a pale blue one-piece swimsuit that she now wished had been cut a great deal fuller. She picked her way across the sand and pebbles to the edge of the bay, highly conscious of Anthony. His firm, athletic torso glistening in the sun, he

stood waist-deep in the water, his hands on his hips, lazily watching her. His eyes, somehow amused and intense at the same time, moved lingeringly down her body, and the swimsuit felt even skimpier than it was. Colouring furiously over his blatant—and not in the least gentlemanly—stare, Candace knew all too well she should flee—flee both him and Tharros-*- but instead, with a shallow racing dive, she entered the water, angling widely away from him towards the open sea. He cut her off as she came up for air. 'No, you don't, little mermaid!' he said laughingly, catching her around the waist and behind the knees and hoisting her effortlessly into his arms. 'This,is a swim for fun, not for exercise. You're not planning to do ten laps across the Mediterranean, are you?' 'Let me go!' she gasped. To her surprise, he dropped her with a splash, but when she came up spluttering from the transparent water, he easily captured her again. 'Mermaids,' he drawled, 'are not known to favour bobby pins.' With one hand he pulled them from her hair, easily holding her the while with his other hand at her waist. 'They need their hair floating around them to preserve their modesty.' 'Anthony—stop!' she cried with a half-laugh, pushing away from him. Her hands were flat against the hard, flat muscles of his brown chest; the short dark hair curled around her fingertips. With her heart pounding at the feel of him, she managed to free her upper body, only to have her legs, carried by the current, drift up against his. And now her hair did float around her in a reddish- gold cloud.

'Stop?' he said lazily, giving her a wicked grin, 'when I'm enjoying myself so much?' His eyes, glittering and hot, held hers and she found herself powerless as he pulled her against the warmth of his chest. 'My enchanting little mermaid.' It was said in a husky whisper, a kind of amused despair. 'How Yd love to make you pay for the spell you've placed on me!' And before she could say anything or totally comprehend that he, too, was under a spell, his curly head dipped down and he captured her lips with a possessiveness that stopped her breath. For an endless, blissful moment Candace abandoned herself to the overpowering sweetness of his embrace and the gentle but insistent pressure of his lips on hers. One of his hands was at the back of her head, his powerful fingers twined almost painfully in her hair; the other—and here a warning bell should have rung in her mind—slipped lower, toher throat, to her trembling shoulders, moulding her against him. There was, finally, a warning bell of sorts—a fear, a doubtfulness—but it was distant and weak, and not remotely capable of competing against the head-spinning, mesmerising sensations that crawled over her skin. Slowly, with growing passion, his lips moved to her cheeks, her forehead, then down her throat. His hand twisted more deeply into her hair. Breathless and intoxicated, lulled by the soft emerald sea lapping gently at her thighs, Candace watched defencelessly as his head dropped lower still. There was no resistance in her, no strength even to breathe, as she watched him pull the straps of her swimsuit down from her shoulders. He stopped stone-still for an instant and she heard him draw a single ragged breath. Then his mouth moved to her exposed white breast, and with the first fantastic caress of his tongue to a rosy, expectant nipple her entire body seemed to explode into flame. Hardly

knowing what she did, she found her own fingers clutching his thick, curly hair, pressing his face more closely to her breast. It was a raucous screech of a herring gull wheeling only a few feet overhead that snapped her out of her daze, and she struggled to break free of the dangerous, dazzling passivity that held her helpless in his arms. 'Anthony . . . please . . . you mustn't,' she pleaded softly. He shivered briefly, as if he too had been jolted out of a trance. Then, reluctantly, he pulled his head back, and cradled her in his arms. 'And why mustn't I?' he whispered hoarsely. She buried her face against his chest, listening to his fast, deep heartbeat, the short dark hair that curled from his skin rough against her soft cheek. 'Because,' came her muffled reply, 'I ... I may be willing . . . but I'm not really ready, and you said—' 'Sh, little one,' he whispered softly, gently stroking her hair. 'You don't have to explain; I understand.' His head moved back and he smiled suddenly at her. 'I haven't fed you yet, and you're hungry.' 'Don't be silly,' she giggled, enormously relieved to hear his warm, teasing tone defuse the tension in the air. Quickly, her head lowered so he couldn't see the crimson in her cheeks, she replaced the straps on her shoulders. 'But now that you mention it—' she said, as a diversion, and then deftly hooking her foot around his leg, she shoved suddenly against his chest and raced for the shore before he came up from his dunking. She expected to hear him churning after her, but instead he just stood there and laughed. 'If that's your way of telling me I'm all wet,' he called, 'I guess I had it coming!'

Within a few minutes they had towelled themselves dry and changed, and were sitting on the car rug in an easy kind of camaraderie—how different from the heart-stopping frenzy of a little while before—unpacking the food. Soon they were munching the panim they had bought at a tiny grocery store in Abbasanta—huge, paper-thin slices of mortadella and provolone tucked into moist, wonderfully crusty rolls. They both had two of them, downing them with fresh milk. It was there in the shade of the marble columns, contentedly doing something as prosaic as peeling an orange, that Candace finally admitted the inadmissible to herself: she was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him, for good or ill. And she was very much afraid she knew which one it was.

CHAPTER SEVEN 'WORRIED about meeting my relatives?' asked Anthony, sensing her change in mood. He stopped shaking out the rug and looked at her, his brown eyes soft. 'A little,' lied Candace. If only that was all she had to worry about, instead of the inescapable fact that she had fallen in love with Anthony Belmont! And even if by some miracle he actually fell in love with her, they would be the most ill-suited couple imaginable. The whole thing was absolutely hopeless. 'Don't be. They'll love you, especially Nonna. She loves to see people do justice to her meals. . . and I'm confident you'll do that,' he added with a straight face. 'You're terrible, Anthony Belmont! My appetite's normal; it's those lettuce-eating, carrot- nibbling actresses you're surrounded—' She saw his eyes twinkle and realised he was teasing her. 'Very funny,' she muttered drily. Less than an hour after they had left Tharros, they reached the outskirts of Oristano, and Anthony stopped the car in front of a sprawling, low-slung house, its rough, clay-brick walls overhung with grapevines in profusion. Candace's heart sank at the sight of twenty or more vehicles parked haphazardly in front of the house and along the street. Was it to be a gathering of the entire Belmondo clan? 'Oh, damn!' grumbled Anthony, expertly manoeuvring their Ferrari into a minuscule space. 'I told them I didn't want all the relatives here, down to third cousins once removed. It must be curiosity—' He stopped, his brow furrowed with incredulity. Several people were spilling out of the massive, low doorway, and in their lead was an attractive, matronly woman, with gleaming black hair barely touched

with grey and swept back into an elegant chignon. 'What the hell!' breathed Anthony. 'What's wrong?' 'That's my mother . . . and my father . . . and assorted siblings—all of whom are supposed to be in Los Angeles, where they belong.' Candace stifled a smile. Anthony looked so dismayed . . . and more than a little like a child who had just been caught pilfering the cookie jar. She had never seen him look anything but in control. Further reflection was impossible; the car doors were flung open and Candace found herself helped out and then hugged by a portly, balding man, while Anthony was being embraced by his mother. 'I told you he'd find a nice girl some day, Mother,' Anthony's father called jovially over Candace's shoulder. 'All you had to do was be patient!' 'Patient! Paolo, I waited ten years!' Gina Belmont-retorted, then turned back to Anthony. 'As soon as we read the news in the paper and found out poor Candace didn't have parents, I told Pappa it was up to us to help the two of you out and arrange everything.' 'She means she decided to strike while the iron was hot,' joked a tall, good-looking youth who looked like a younger version of Anthony, 'before either of you changed your mind!' Oh, dear, grimaced Candace, glad that she wasn't in Anthony's shoes and faced with the prospect of telling his parents the engagement wasn't for real. 'Now, you be quiet, Nick.' Mrs Belmont flashed Candace a cordial smile. 'Candace, don't you pay any attention to these men.' She turned delighted eyes back to her eldest son and babbled on, while Mr

Belmont introduced Candace to still more of Anthony's brothers and sisters, and then to other curious and friendly relatives who milled excitedly—and loudly—in the doorway. At first she tried to remember names, but what with the confusion and the din—some people were shouting to her in Italian, others in English—she gave up in despair and settled for nodding, shaking hands, and returning the glowing smiles. Once inside the house, Mr Belmont fought his way with her to the side of a diminutive woman with snow-white hair, who was dressed, as were some of the other older women, in what must have been a costume of old Sardinia: a floor-length black skirt bordered in rose-coloured silk and a vest of the same pink silk, its long sleeves split to show the full white sleeves of the blouse beneath. There were gold ornaments at her throat, and a row of tiny, richly worked silver balls that hung on delicate chains at her waist. It was all colourful in the extreme, but Candace marvelled most of all at the full velvet apron decorated with the elderly woman's needlework in floral designs of amazing subtlety and intricacy. She had never seen anything remotely like it except in the hall of Gobelin tapestries in San Francisco's Legion of Honor. This erect and stately vision from another century looked wide-eyed at Candace for a long few seconds. Then the old hands clasped and the birdlike face smiled dazzlingly at her. She clasped both of Candace's hands, suddenly looked shy, and turned and spoke in Italian to the robust, elderly man at her side. Candace didn't need an introduction to know that this man, with his rugged, creased face and piercing, hawklike eyes, was Anthony's grandfather—the twentieth-century Sardinian patriarch. 'To meet you, Signorina Hillyer, gives us much pleasure,' he said solemnly, in heavily accented English. As they shook hands, Candace was aware of his shrewd Sardinian eyes assessing her every feature. He evidently decided that he liked what he saw, because his lined old

face suddenly cracked into a smile and she found herself being kissed on both cheeks and heartily hugged as well. 'Wine! Vino!' he shouted to the room at large. As the younger men of the family moved with alacrity, he turned to Anthony and growled, still in English, It's about time you settled down. A few more years and we have to drink vinegar!' Anthony laughed. Seeing Candace's puzzled expression, he explained: 'My grandfather makes his own wines, and on the day each grandson or granddaughter is born he lays down a case of vernaccia to be drunk at the engagement celebration.' Guilt over her false position washed over Candace as she accepted a delicate, hand-blown Venetian goblet of amber wine from Anthony's grandfather; guilt and more than a little anger at Anthony for standing there and not forthrightly calling a halt to this absurd scene. Reluctant to say anything herself in this mob of well-meaning strangers, Candace found herself drinking a round of toasts. She couldn't understand the words, but the warmth and good humour radiating from the assembled Belmonts and Belmondos —all chattering away and creating a merry confusion—was unmistakable. How lovely it would be, Candace thought with pain, to have a real family, a loving family like this one . . . She was suddenly sick at heart and close to tears, and to hide them, she bent her head to sip again at the wine in her glass. She was on the verge of swallowing when she heard Gina Belmont's excited voice cut across a rare lull in the noise and laughter. '. . . and believe it or not, you can be married now, today! Why not?' Candace choked on the vernaccia and looked quickly at Anthony, who turned pale under his tan. She moved closer to him to hear better.

'Your father's worked like a dog and pulled strings shamelessly,' continued Mrs Belmont, while Paolo Belmont beamed on cue. 'He's gotten all the paperwork done, and of course your grand-father insisted you be married in the church here. Well, knowing you wouldn't come until the weather changed, we've been waiting and waiting for rain—' 'Mom was on the verge of looking into cloud seeding—' 'Nick!' 'Yes, Mom, I'll be quiet,' the youth drawled, flashing the speechless Candace a wink. Anthony wasn't in much better shape than she was. He cleared his throat. 'Mom, you really shouldn't have gone to all that trouble,' he said. 'I mean . . . this is awfully sudden, and Candace couldn't possibly be ready—' Mrs Belmont smiled fondly at Candace. What woman in her right mind, she seemed to be saying, wouldn't marry her son at the drop of a hat? Then she looked back at Anthony and said, 'Oh, no, it's you men who always want to drag your f$et. Candace is all set. Right, Candace?' With a plummeting sensation in the pit of her stomach, Candace realised that all the chattering had stopped and everyone's eyes were eagerly upon her. She shot a quick glance at Anthony, who gave her a lopsided little grin and shrugged ever so slightly. He was taken aback all right, but he didn't seem very worried that she might say yes and trap him into a marriage that had never been meant to happen. She realised with a start that he probably expected her to acquiesce—really, what else could she do with his whole family around them? After all, in this day and age, a fake marriage could be

annulled almost as easily and quietly as a fake engagement could be dissolved, especially back in California. 'Right, Mrs Belmont,' she heard herself say weakly, her eyes fastened on Anthony's face, 'I'm all set.' Relief flooded through her when she saw his face break into a smile. Thank goodness she was finally learning to read his expression.

The next two hours passed in a buzzing, confusing haze for Candace, and not once was she left alone to think. In a way she was grateful, because she knew she would spend the time puzzling over the craziness of her response to Mrs Belmont, of the farcical situation here in Oristano, and of life in general. For a girl who had been worrying about being a stick-in-the-mud only a few weeks ago, things were certainly taking some surprising turns! Gina Belmont and her daughters had left nothing to chance. They had even tracked down Candace's address in Monterey so they could find out her clothing sizes from Becky. And Becky—who was going to get a piece of Candace's mind when she got home!—had told them. Leading Candace into one of the back bedrooms, Mrs Belmont slid open a closet to show her a rack full of beautiful new clothes—among them a classic white silk dress and floppy picture hat with a wisp of a veil—obviously the intended wedding outfit. There were no price tags, but it was very clear that expense had not been spared. 'I hope you'll forgive me for rushing you, Candace,' Mrs Belmont said a bit nervously, "but I knew you were the right girl for Anthony the minute I saw your picture in the magazine—the one with you wearing that lovely little green sundress with the flowers?'

'What Mom means is that you look like a nice girl, not like some of those scarlet women Tony dates,' piped Anthony's young sister with a grin. Gina Belmont rolled her eyes ceilingward. 'Margherita, really!' 'Yes, Mom.' The teenager grimaced at the sound of her name, then grinned. 'Please call me Meggy, Candace; I can't stand Margherita.' 'And why not?' her mother asked. 'It's a good Italian name. Your grandmother was named Margherita, and her grandmother before her.' She turned to Candace. 'The other side of the family,' she explained. 'The Monferratos.' She smiled at Candace a little shyly. 'Candace is a nice name, too. Not very Italian, but nice.' She squeezed Candace's hand. 'I'm so happy for you.' Candace could feel the uncomplicated warmth coming from the woman; from all of them. She was wretched. It was difficult to keep her composure while carrying out this miserable deception. And the fact that she wished it weren't a deception, that she had fallen in love with Anthony, added an ironic, sickening twist. Did he have any idea of the hell he was putting her through? She doubted it. 'And now, my dear,' Mrs Belmont said softly, slipping the white dress off its hanger, 'it's time to get dressed.' The church, small and incredibly ancient, at least to Candace's American eyes, was only a short distance from the Belmondos' house. By the time Candace was dressed, the men had already left, and she was escorted down the street by the women of the family, under the curious and approving eyes of scores of neighbours. An embarrassed Candace was glad to reach the portico of the church, where Anthony's grandfather waited, ruddy and excited, to take her down the aisle.

Within a few dizzy moments her hand was in Anthony's, and they were standing at the high altar before an old, frail priest in shining vestments of white and gold. The service was in Latin, and Anthony softly prompted her whenever needed. Beset by a welter of conflicting emotions, Candace kept her eyes down, irrationally drawing comfort from the strong grip of Anthony's hand, and the sure, calm way he slipped the antique gold ring on her finger. At the end of the ceremony, he turned her towards him and lifted the veil. 'I'll make this up to you, darling,' he whispered, his brown eyes warm, as his mouth came down to claim the traditional kiss. Darling. The endearment echoed strangely in her ears. Perhaps he owed her something for going through all this; that she understood. But why 'darling'? It was one more confusing and fantastic thing to puzzle over. When the church ceremony was finished, she and Anthony were marched solemnly back to the house. Once behind its high, stuccoed walls, however, the atmosphere turned festive. It wouldhave been impossible for anyone not to become infected by the delicious aura of excitement and well-being. Or at least that was what Candace told herself as she found herself losing track of time and of any sense that tomorrow must eventually come. She found herself in the walled garden, sipping wine, dancing, and nibbling food from the heavily loaded trestle tables: porchette—suckling pig roasted on spits—and succulent roasts of lamb, all seasoned with the smoke of a fire made with juniper, olive and mastic wood; a dozen kinds of bursting ravioli; a heavy, dumpling-like potato pasta called gnocchi; fresh lobster and sardines from the sea, and trout from the mountain streams; cheese; ripe fruits; and gallons of vernaccia.

On a separate lace-covered table was the most exquisite wedding cake Candace had ever seen—a huge, round, flat cake with a marvellously intricate rococo design worked around hers and Anthony's names. Surrounding it were masses of heart-shaped cookies made out of the same batter, each individually and painstakingly decoratod. If this was the sort of wedding celebration Anthony's family prepared with a day's notice, what would they have cooked up if they'd had months to work on it? It wasn't until Candace had danced with the senior men of the family that Anthony was permitted a dance for himself. As he swept her into his arms, she was electrifyingly conscious of the scent of his sharp, clean cologne, of his hands on her back, of the hardness of his chest against her breast—all conjuring up feelings too sensuous— and delightful—to be endured. She raised her eyes to his, knowing her feelings were reflected there, but she was beyond caring. Anthony smiled perplexedly and his dark eyes questioned her. 'I've been watching you for the last hour and wondering—Whatever happened to the logical, serious, cool young girl who left La Maddalena with me this morning?' What indeed? This morning was a million years ago, La Maddalena a million miles away. Rapt, Candace held his gaze, thinking of nothing but how she loved him, forgetting all about logic, coolness . . .caution. It was late when they finally fled to a small guesthouse to be alone. Candace was intoxicated— not with wine, but with feelings. Her impersonation of a happy bride was flawless, so much so that at some point fantasy had blended with reality, and she had stopped thinking of anything but the present—of dancing dreamily in Anthony's arms . . . of snatched, gentle kisses . . . of burning glances whenever their eyes met ... of being in love and—miraculously—feeling that love reciprocated.

But when they reached the privacy of the bedroom she sobered. The sight of the huge double bed was more effective than a splash of cold water, and her heart leaped into her throat. She had let her emotions run away with her. Now, fortunately, her brain was reminding her that even though a bizarre twist of fate had caused her to exchange wedding vows with Anthony Belmont, there was a place to draw the line between a sham marriage and a real one. And sitting squarely on that line was the big double bed. Her thoughts must have been mirrored in her face, because Anthony gave her an ironic grin as he took off his jacket and tossed it on a straight- backed wooden chair. 'I see the dull gleam of seriousness in those beautiful eyes of yours, Candace,' he said. 'Is my logical, cool little kitten having some sober second thoughts ?' He started unbuttoning his shirt, and even though the last thing she wanted was to be reminded of his virile magnetism, she found it impossible not to watch. 'It's just that... I hope you don't think that I'm . . .we're. . . I mean we aren't really married. . .' Her voice trailed off as he moved languidly to a massive, rough-hewn chest and removed his cuff links. The clunking, masculine sound of the solid gold links striking wood made her heart accelerate even more. Anthony's eyes narrowed and his eyebrows drew together. 'But we are really married,' he said evenly, 'and those second thoughts of yours are just a little late.' The sudden mockery in his eyes added fuel to her courage. 'I'm not having second thoughts,' she said firmly. 'You know perfectly well that I only went along so as not to embarrass you in front of your family. I naturally assumed that we'd have a quiet annulment after

you'd had a chance to explain things to your parents in private.' She spoke quietly, her grey-green eyes enormous. A flash of anger hardened the planes of his face, and he moved quickly to grasp her shoulders. 'Then you assumed wrong. I may not be as traditional as my parents, but I'm traditional enough to hold the wedding vows sacred.' He smiled—the merest hint of a tilt at the corners of his mouth—and added in a quiet but granite-like tone, 'You are my wife, now ... for ever . . . whether you like it or not.' 'You can't be serious!' she cried, shocked, scanning the handsome face looking down at her, hoping to see a familiar sign of teasing, but there was none. He meant every word. Then, gently, he pulled her into his arms and caressed her back to quiet her. 'You know you love me. It's been plastered all over your face all day.' His voice was husky with tenderness. 'And God knows I've loved you ever since I saw you on that rocky shelf, half drowned yourself but refusing to let go of that little seal. My family only speeded up something I'd practically resolved to do the first day I met you.' He held her off at arm's length and stared into her eyes. 'Hadn't you realised that?' Realised it? She hadn't even dreamed it! 'No.' She shook her head vehemently. 'I didn't think your intentions were anything but . . / her voice trailed off. 'Dishonourable?' He laughed a little grimly. 'Oh, I've had my moments . . . such as this morning. I'm only flesh and blood, you know, and you're a hell of a desirable woman, but. . .'his dark eyes turned suddenly serious, . . . but you're too close to the woman I've always dreamed of to take a chance on tarnishing a relationship that could become pure gold.'

Dumbstruck, Candace stared back at him, her whole world reeling. 'Admit it, darling,' he entreated, the unmistakable sincerity of his voice weakening her resolve, 'you do love me.' 'Oh, Anthony . . . Anthony, I do love you, but . . . but don't you see, you're mistaken. It couldn't ever work.' Her breath seemed to catch in her chest and choke her; her voice was smothered. 'We're too dissimilar ... we don't have anything in common . . . you're a movie director . . . Oh, Anthony!' He tightened his embrace and pulled her roughly to him. 'It will if you give it a chance,' he said fiercely. Then his face came down and he covered her mouth with his own. She trembled in his arms and her body ached longingly for him, but still that logical mind of hers resisted. If she lost this battle of wills and he made love to her it would be too late; a man who balked at an annulment would never consent to a divorce. But she was adrift on the tide of his kiss, lost in the terrible sweetness of it, and the small, cautious voice inside her was calmed and made quiet. Then, suddenly, she was clinging to him savagely in willing surrender, aflame with the desire he had kindled at Tharros. And this time it would not be contained. It was the signal he had been waiting for, and without haste, without urgency—almost with rev* erence—he gathered her up into his arms and carried her across to the wide, soft bed.

The voice was puzzlingly close to her ear, but it penetrated her consciousness only dimly. 'Wake up, kitten,' it coaxed. 'Come on, now, wake up!' It took nibbling little kisses on her ear to finally awaken her, and she opened her eyes to find herself exactly where she had been

when she had fallen asleep—cradled in Anthony's strong arms, her forehead pressed to the warm nook between his shoulder and his throat. 'Sorry to wake you, darling, but the sky is clear and we need to get back to La Maddalena by daylight. It looks like a good shooting day.' Hazy memories of the night floated disconnectedly in her mind. There was little clear recollection of anything except the passion that had swept over her, bringing her more vibrantly alive than she had ever been before. The remembrance of her utter abandonment in his arms—the giving as well as the demanding in return—brought warmth to her cheeks. Raising himself up on his elbow, Anthony smiled down at her and traced the outline of her smooth face with his finger. 'Still blushing?' he teased. 'I'd think you'd be over that. . .now.' Candace's colour deepened. 'It was ... I don't know what came over me,' she whispered, catching sight of her dress and slip thrown carelessly over a chair. She remembered now, all too clearly, how he had tantalizingly, slowly undressed her while his mouth and his hands had drawn her maddeningly on until every inch of her was aflame. If she had been blushing then, she couldn't recall it now-. She burrowed her head into his chest, hoping he wouldn't see that the hot blood was surging again in her veins. Her passion was not spent, but merely banked, needing only a soft breath—a memory—to ignite it again into a searing fire. The childish movement of her face against his chest excited him; through the mat of curly hair she could hear his heartbeat accelerate.

His lips brushed her hair, lingered a moment as he inhaled her fragrance, and moved away. 'Now don't distract me,' he warned. 'We're meeting on the corner at six sharp, and we've a long drive.' Candace had heard him use the expression before. She looked up at him, her forehead furrowed. 'Why do you always say, "Meet on the corner," when the crew and cast always meet at the dock?' He laughed as he slid out of bed, and Candace,' still naively shy in his presence, averted her eyes. 'It's an old Hollywood expression,' he explained. 'It just means the prearranged meeting spot. It dates back to the days of the old Westerns, when the crew really did meet on the corner. All right, Mrs Belmont,' he said, his voice rich with amusement, 'you can look now.' She glanced back to see him tying the belt of a yellow, kimono-like robe that made his skin look like copper against it. He obviously did not share her shyness; his dark eyes played possessively over her slender body. In a burst of timidity Candace tremblingly pulled the sheet up to her chin. 'Your charms may be out of sight, but they're not out of mind,' he said, tossing her a bright green robe. 'You're too damn tempting lying there, and I have a full day's work ahead of me. So get that on, young lady, and go find some clothes. Now get cracking!' Creeping out of the silent house without awakening anyone, they walked to the red Ferrari. There, in the moist pre-dawn breeze from the Mediterranean, Anthony kissed her, just brushing his lips against hers; a lingering, cool, exquisitely sweet kiss. He adjusted her car seat to a reclining position and tenderly tucked the car rug over her knees after she got in. Candace accepted his attentions willingly. How very lovely it was to have someone taking care of her, protecting her! 'I want you to try to get some sleep,' he said firmly. 'You've hardly had any. I wish to hell you didn't have to work today.'

'Don't be silly,' she said, settling comfortably in. 'I can go weeks without a regular night's sleep.' He brushed the tumbled auburn hair back from her cheek and lightly kissed her eyelids. 'If that's an invitation for a few more nights like the last one, kitten, I accept wholeheartedly.' 'Oh, Anthony, you're terrible!' she protested, thankful for the darkness that hid the inevitable red washing over her cheeks. 'I know; aren't you glad? Now go to sleep.' Did most women end up feeling and acting like the proverbially blushing bride in the first days of intimacy? she wondered. Or was she an unsophisticated, ingenuous throwback to a generation before? Snuggled into her comfortable corner, shegazed at his handsome profile in the glow of the dashboard lights; the strong, craggy bone structure was highlighted, the planes in shadow. How had she ever attracted such a man? Was it her very lack of sophistication that intrigued him? What made him love her? They were all very pleasant questions to ponder, bundled up next to him, lulled by the warmth of the heater, the smooth hum of the engine, and the steady, soothing sway of the car. She was roused by the sudden cessation of motion and an abrupt silence as the ignition was shut off. 'Palau already?' she murmured, blinking in the pearly dawn light. 'Yes. You've been snoring for hours.' 'Oh, Anthony, I haven't really, have I?' 'Of course not,' he said, grinning. 'You're too pretty to snore. How about a cup of coffee while I call La Maddalena and have the launch come and get us?'

They went into a tiny café near the dock and Candace took a seat at a plastic-topped table overlooking the lightening water. Anthony went to the curved bar. 'Buon giorno,' he said to the sleepy, white- jacketed barman.'Due cappucini, per favore.' 'Va bene, signore, subito.' While Anthony went to the telephone, the barman seemed to spring to life at his coffee machine, a huge chromium apparatus of tubes, levers and spouts that sat in gleaming splendour on the countertop—obviously the piece de resistance of the otherwise modest establishment. Candace watched with interest as the man placed two cups that looked as big as buckets under one of the spouts and pulled one of the long levers. With a faint hiss of steam the big cups were half-filled with espresso coffee as black as ink. Then a generous dollop of milk was poured into a metal pitcher and held up to another spout, a thin snaky one, and still another lever was pulled. There was another, louder hiss, and within a few seconds milk had been steamed to a froth. The barman filled the cups with the milk, and, with a flourish, sprinkled a little powdered chocolate on top of each. Then he carried them to the table on a tray. 'Grazie,' said Anthony, returning at the same time. 'Pr&go, signore,' the barman said proudly, and went back behind the bar where he once again leaned sleepily against the wall, apparently exhausted by his performance. Candace picked up the cup in both hands and brought the steaming, fragrant coffee to her lips. 'This is absolutely luscious,' she smiled. As she said it an odd thought struck her: she had been in Sardinia two week? and this slightly dusty little cafe bar with its fishing nets and floats, its dogeared posters of Rome, Venice and Florence, represented

the first time she'd been 'out'. She'd got engaged and married, of all things, but she had yet to go to a restaurant. Anthony, leaning one elbow on the table and supporting his chin in his hand, was watching her, and, not for the first time, he read her thoughts in her face. 'All this time in Sardinia,' he said musingly, 'and you're just now sipping cappucino in a café bar—the most Italian of institutions. I've kept you cooped up on that boat, haven't I? Well, that's over now.' He inhaled the aroma of his coffee and swallowed some. I'll have Max arrange press conference today so I can tell the faithful paparazzi we're married.' He laughed. 'Nothing will kill their interest quicker! As of tonight, we can move back to the hotel, and maybe we'll have time to see some of the sights from now on—or at least to go out after shooting for a cup of cappucino.' He raised his cup and clinked it against hers. 'Salute, Signora Belmont,' he said, smiling. 'I think you're going to find life very pleasant from now on.'

He couldn't have been more right. With days spent working in the hot, clean sunshine, dinners in interesting and exotic little restaurants, and magical, late-night hours together that Anthony managed to snatch from work, time flew by so idyllically that Candace had no time to think, and little reason to. In all her life she had never been so happy. So it went for three blissful weeks, and then the day came when the underwater scenes were finished and Candace was faced with her old enemy—leisure. Anthony remained as busy as ever shooting the remaining outdoor, above-water scenes with Trent and the temperamental and beautiful Valerie de Morgan, newly arrived from Hollywood now that the stunt work was done. Since then seven days had passed—or was it six? or eight? She had lost track—and Candace's thoughts had grown gloomier daily. The first two days she

had gone out to the yacht with him, hoping that she might help him somehow. The crew had been courteous and patient, and had tried to make her feel useful, but it was obvious that, with her ignorance of film-making, she was only getting in the way. Since then she had remained at the Hotel Villa Sardegna alone. Her difficulty with the Italian authorities had been resolved, and she was free to go about by herself; the problem was that she didn't want to go about by herself; she wanted to be with Anthony. She should have taken him up on his offer to have her tag along to the yacht and simply watch, she thought, aimlessly tossing pebbles into the quiet water of their private little cove and watching the rippling, concentric circles spread outward. No, she wasn't being altogether honest with herself. It wasn't simple, childish loneliness that was making her so gloomy. For days now she had been brooding futilely about how she was going to adjust over the long run to his style of life. That it would be she who would have to adapt she had little doubt. Anthony Belmont vas a man who knew his own mind and would stick to his principles and values. What worried her was the probability that those values were the same as those of his Sardinian patriarch of a grandfather, especially when it came to the role of women. Oh, Anthony might see a wife's place as extending beyond the kitchen and the bedroom, but how much beyond? She was fairly certain it didn't extend as far as an independent, professional career. If that was the way he felt, he was in for a shock, and their relationship for some stormy times, because she knew she was capable of having both a family and a career, and she wanted both with all her heart. Sighing, she leaned back against a smooth boulder and stared unseeingly at the little cove and the flagstoned terrace. This restless,

useless feeling after only a week of idleness did not bode well for the month Anthony had been talking about taking off as soon as the picture was finished. 'We'll rent a little cottage,' he had said, 'somewhere quiet, with a private beach, so we can just lie around and relax and I can properly teach you about the pleasures of life.' Not wanting to hurt him, and knowing he would need a rest after his gruelling schedule, Candace had hidden her dismay at the thought of having nothing productive to do for a full month—just as she had hidden her undiminished disdain for his occupation. She had tried to understand, to appreciate it, for she wanted to think or feel nothing that might irritate him, or that he might construe as a lack of respect f?t him. He was, after all, as dedicated to and involved in film-making as he was in marine biology. She bit her lip gently. It was the sort of difference in perspective that could fray or perhaps tear the newly woven fabric of their relationship. Or—even worse—it might kill what he felt for her—a love which she now knew she needed terribly. She looked behind her at the sound of footsteps on the terrace. 'There you are.' Looking tired, Anthony dropped down next to her and kissed her lightly. 'What a day!' 'Technical problems?' 'I wish that was all.' He shook his head. 'No, Valerie is being even more difficult than usual. She found fault with everything today, from her accommodation down to her lines. Even worse, she and Trent had a blow-up during the last take.' He drew his eyebrows together and gave her an appealing look. 'I've asked them both to join us for dinner tonight. Do you mind?'

Of course not. Are you hoping a little extra attention is what she needs?' Anthony playfully tapped her head with his forefinger. 'That was a very intelligent reaction, Mrs Belmont, free of petty jealousy. I married you— partly anyway—for your mind. Did you know that?' 'You should be impressed, Mr Belmont,' she teased, poking him in the ribs, 'considering you once told me I resembled Valerie but I wasn't anywhere near as beautiful. In fact, if I recall correctly, you told me it was a good thing I was going to wear a face mask.' He laughed. 1 did? No, you must be making that up.' He reached out and pulled her into his arms, and then, his fatigue gone, he was kissing and caressing her until her whole body shivered with excitement. 'Anthony, we're meeting people for dinner!' she protested laughingly, as he swung her up into his arms and carried her into their suite. 'Uh-huh.' He set her down and pushed her gently back against the cool silken comforter. 'But I had the foresight to tell them we'd meet in the bar because we might be a little late.'

They were going to be very late. After hurriedly dressing, Candace paused for a moment in front of the full-length mirror on the wall of her dressing room. She was wearing one of the gowns that Mrs Belmont had purchased—a smooth-fitting, halter- topped, jade-green dress that set off her slim figure and deepened the green sparkle of her eyes. Her - thick hair fell silkily to her shoulders, and with a faint glow in her cheeks from Anthony's lovemaking, she had never looked so beautiful—even if she said so herself, and she had, she was sure, everything any woman could want.

So why couldn't she ignore that nagging little voice that kept saying, 4 It will never work... it will never last,' whenever she wasn't wrapped in the security of Anthony's arms? And why had her mind begun to dwell on the grim message of the Greek tragedies—that we all carry within us our own catastrophic flaws, the seeds of our own destruction? What was her fatal flaw? Her relentless, never-ending seriousness? Reflecting on the perversity of her nature, Candace was quiet during the dinner in La Spiagetta, the hotel's elegantly subdued restaurant. It would in any case have been hard to be anything else at the same table as Valerie de Morgan. A talkative, ravishingly beautiful woman in a gold designer gown, the actress would have stolen the limelight from any woman; Candace Hillyer—oops, Candace Belmont—from Monterey didn't stand a chance. But she didn't mind; she was confident of Anthony, and she found it amusing to observe how, with subtlety and charm, he defused the tension between his two stars. She was more than content to savour the distinctive Sardinian culingione— ravioli stuffed with cheese, spinach, eggs and saffron, and covered with a rich tomato sauce. This was followed by an equally delicious fritto misto—a mixed plate of fried scampi, squid rings, scallops, and sardines. By the time the pears, apples and Bel Paese were served, the three were chatting amiably about old friends and old films. Anthony would have made a superb diplomat, Candace thought wryly. She wondered what her chances were of getting him to make a career switch. Next to none, she sighed to herself. They had just finished dessert—a rich cassata chock full of nuts, candied fruit, chocolate, and creamy ricotta cheese—and were drinking their espresso from tiny cups so thin they were translucent, when she realised suddenly that Valerie was looking at her expectantly.

'I'm sorry,' Candace confessed with a half-smile, 'I'm afraid my mind was wandering. Did you ask me something?' 'I think we've been neglecting your bride, Anthony,' drawled Trent, giving Candace an apologetic grin. 'Do forgive us, Candace,' said Valerie. 'Sometimes we forget everyone doesn't find the entertainment world as fascinating as we do.' With a glassy smile, the actress added, 'I was asking you how you found stuntwork, and whether you'd like to continue doing it.' It was certainly interesting,' Candace returned politely, 'but no, I have no plans to continue.' 'What, then? Surely in this day and age you're not planning to simply settle down and raise il direttore's bambiniT Valerie had asked it archly, but it was the question Candace had been torturing herself with for days. 'Well, no, not just that . . .' Involuntarily, Candace glanced across the table at her husband. A faintly bemused expression appeared on Anthony's face. 'In addition to raising my many bambini,' he said, 'Candace is planning a career in marine biology. She's studying it now, and still has a few years of school work to go.' 'Marine biology,' Valerie remarked with a brilliant, empty smile. 'How very interesting. I simply adore fishes.' Candace hardly heard her. And for the first time in days that nagging little voice it the back of her mind was silent. Anthony's words had astounded her; why had she not raised the question with him before, instead of worrying and fretting for a week? She gazed rapturously at

her husband, uncaring that Trent, or Valerie, or the white-jacketed waiter could not fail to see the lovelight in her eyes. It might be ... it just might be . . . that this insane, random, blessed marriage might have a chance.

CHAPTER EIGHT WEATHER problems and mechanical failures made the last two weeks of filming so hectic that Anthony had little time to spend with Candace, but the time passed quickly for her anyway. She had returned to her textbooks in preparation for going back to school, and she and Anthony had already begun to make plans for a vacation to New England during the Christmas recess. If this were not the best of both worlds, she didn't know what was. How could anyone ask for more? 'Did you really think I was going to ask you to give up your studies?' he had asked when they had returned to their suite after the dinner with Trent and Valerie. 'I didn't know,' Candace replied truthfully, 'and knowing your . . . well, your conservative Italian background, I was afraid to ask. ' Anthony's glance was amused. 'No, in that respect, I'm an all-American, liberated male. In fact, I wouldn't have married a woman who didn't have outside interests. To tell the truth, the way you talked about marine biology the day we met was what started me thinking about marriage.' A small smile lifted one corner of his mouth. 'That and the fact that I couldn't take my eyes off you.' Surprised, Candace looked at him, her slate- green eyes wide and thoughtful. 'Don't look so amazed. My job takes me away from home a great deal and, as you know all too well, I work long, hard hours.' He grimaced. 'There are a lot of men in my business with problem marriages. Their wives are bored, they feel neglected. . . and they get their solace from lovers. . . or out of a bottle. I decided a long time ago that I'd rather not marry at all, if I was going to have one of those marriages. I do have one quirk that I share with my grandfather, though,' he added a little sheepishly, running a hand through his thick hair.

'I know,' she said, smiling. 'Possessiveness. You almost bit poor Trent's head off that time he tried to get me to go out with him.' 'What I felt like doing was breaking his neck,' he growled. 'What?' she said innocently. 'Am I never to speak to any man but my husband?' 'As a matter of fact, that would suit me fine.' He tilted up her chin and gave her a wry, small grin. 'However, I hereby give you my permission to converse with fellow marine biologists who happen to be male.' 'That's a relief,' Candace smiled. With the look that had glinted briefly in his eyes, his resemblance to his fierce, hawklike grandfather was uncanny. 'But what about the party you're throwing for the crew and cast tomorrow night? Do I have to spend half my time talking to Valerie?' 'NO, that's a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone. AH right,' he moaned, T promise to resist the urge to violence if I see you talking to any other men.' He shook his head, smiling. "Give yens an inch and you take a mite!' 'Uh-huh. But you know perfectly well you don't have anything to worry about.' She stood up on tiptoe and kissed him—a light, teasing kiss, but a kiss with a dear invitation. He wasted no time in accepting it.

Anthony had rented a villa with a private beach for the traditional end-of-filming bash, a get-together for cocktails, hors d'oeuvres and swimming, and he had appeared to look forward to it, but now he seemed uneasy.

'You just have to look pretty and relax,' he instructed, before sending Candace off to dress. He spoke lightly, but there was an uncharacteristic note of anxiety in his voice. 'Are you afraid I might not enjoy myself?' It's possible. These parties can get a little . . . unrestrained. Sometimes people go a bit wild after a long, gruelling work session.' He slouched down in one of the white rattan chairs, put his feet up, and yawned. 'While I'm the sort who'd just like to crawl into bed for a week.' 'With or without company?' she teased. He was so handsome lounging there in his fresh jacket, like the Great White Hunter home from the jungle, that Candace's blood stirred in her veins. Instead of growing used to him she found herself loving him, wanting him . . . needing him more everyday. 'You'd better go, little one, or you'll soon find out.' Laughing, she left to change, her curiosity about the party aroused. 'Unrestrained' was hardly the word for what she had heard and read about Hollywood parties. But since she had found out how much distortion there was about the film industry she now tended to distrust all her preconceptions about Hollywood. Was there really any truth in the gossip? Of course there was, she realised. She had been invited to some pretty outrageous—and unpleasant—college parties. So why not among film people? They were just people like those anywhere else and no doubt encompassed the full human spectrum. There were family men, like Gilbert, the grey-haired cameraman who needed no encouragement to show the latest pictures of his grandchildren, and there were others who were positively decadent, going through relationships—formal and informal—as if people were so many disposable commodities.

Pulling on her new bathing suit—a one-piece outfit of white, silky, clinging material printed with scattered and overlapping autumn leaves of gold, orange, and rust—Candace realised she had learned something important about life since she had come to Sardinia. Never again would she stereotype people and file them away in little labelled boxes. She shook her head at herself. How self-righteous and naive she'd been! She tied her flowing wrap-around skirt, the same colour ^s the rust-coloured leaves on the swimsuit, around her waist and put on a diaphanous white blouse with long, flowing sleeves. Knotting the unbuttoned blouse at her waist, she stepped back to check her appearance in the mirror. She looked fine: casual but elegant, and with the deeply-cut neckline of the bathing suit, she was-—even a little sexy. Candace grinned at her reflection. She certainly wasn't the same old stick-in-the-mud! She studied her hair for a while, then decided to leave it loose, as she would probably be swimming at some point during the evening, so it made no sense bothering to put it up. The appreciative look in Anthony's eyes made it evident that he liked her new outfit too. She was glad; she had picked it out by herself at the hotel boutique. It had been a novelty to shop for clothes without having to look at the price tags first. 'I'm glad we're not going to have to stay long,' he murmured, sliding his arms around her waist and holding her against him. 'We're not?' asked Candace, moving her fingers up his lapel, and then to the back of his head to toy with the thick, short curls at the nape of his neck. He shook his head and bent to kiss her. 'I'm notorious for the brevity of my appearances at large social functions.'

'Then that makes two of us,' she replied. 'I've never liked big parties very much.' She lowered her lashes, smiling a little wryly. 'You know, I'm beginning to think we have some things in common after all!' The warmth of his answering smile made her tingle with happiness. The party was in full swing by the time they arrived, and if noise and laughter were any guide itwas already a considerable success. Anthony was hailed from all sides, and with courtesy and tact, he had a few skilfully chosen words of compliment on everyone's job performance. From nowhere Valerie appeared suddenly and flung her arms around his neck. 'Anthony darling, I've been looking everywhere for you,' the actress told him, bestowing on him the benefit of her beautiful smile. Then in what seemed to Candace a highly provocative manner, she reached up and kissed him fully on the lips. 'I do so love working for you and I do hope you have a part for me in your new film.' She snuggled even closer, pressing against him with her tawny, sleek body, clothed in a high-necked but skin-tight black dress. Candace, fascinated by the woman's lack of inhibitions in her own wifely presence, stared wide- eyed. She hardly had time to discover if she were the jealous type, because Anthony looked at her over Valerie's head and winked. 'I haven't selected a new script yet,' he drawled, diplomatically disengaging himself, 'and The Emerald Sea has yet to be edited, but of course I'll keep you in mind.' 'You just make sure you do, or I'll never forgive you,' she pouted prettily, fluttering her long lashes at him. 'Now, you must let me introduce you to some of the local dignitaries—better known as gate-crashers.'

'Let me get Candace a drink first—' said Anthony, then stopped when Trent, juggling four glasses of champagne, joined them. 'I saw you come in,' Trent said, grinning, 'and snatched these off a tray. A man could die of thirst waiting for the waiters to get through this crowd!' He waited for everyone to take a glass. 'Well, here's to a new box-office sensation.' 'Anthony's pictures are always sensational,' cooed Valerie, drinking to the toast. 'A mild exaggeration, Valerie, but thank you for it,' Anthony said drily. Trent laughed. 'Everyone has an occasional dud. I still cringe when the first movie I was ever in comes back on late-night television!' 'What was it?' asked Candace. 'You have to remember,' Trent replied, 'this was twenty years ago.' 'Come on, Trent,' smiled Anthony, 'tell her the name of it.' Trent pulled a face. 'The Beachboy and the Gorilla…' 'Oh, I remember,' giggled Valerie. 'You played the gorilla.' Everyone laughed at the comic, pained expression that flitted across the handsome actor's face. 'Alas, 'tis true,' he sighed. He turned to Candace. 'Let's change the subject. There's dancing on the terrace; would you care to take a whirl?' He gave Anthony a mock bow. 'I promise not to hold your charming wife closer than twelve inches.' 'Oh, do go, Candace,' Valerie interjected, 'so I can steal your handsome husband away for a few minutes.' Without waiting for an answer, she tucked her hand into the crook of Anthony's arm.

'Don't worry,' said Trent, giving Candace a littlegrin as soon as Anthony disappeared into the crush with the tall actress glued to his side. 'Your husband has been eluding the talons of designing women for years.' There was more room on the terrace, and Candace took a few deep breaths of the cool air before Trent put his arm around her waist for a slow, waltz-like dance. 'Valerie looks like she'd say anything. . .or give anything,' Candace mused wryly, 'to further her career.' 'She's insecure. It's something most performers have in common,' Trent replied, and Candace had the feeling he wasn't excluding himself. 'They're unsure if they'll ever make the top. And if they do—as Valerie has—they worry about how long they'll stay. She'll probably survive longer than most, because under that frothy exterior she's hard as nails.' He smiled. 'You're right about her; she'll do anything for her career—including jumping out of an airplane, which she had to do in her last picture. Five takes, if you can imagine!' 'I'm surprised to hear that about Valerie,' Candace marvelled. 'After sky-diving, I'd think she'd find scuba-diving a lark.' 'Oh, she does,' Trent answered blithely. 'She's very good. She was furious with Anthony for bringing you in to do the underwater scenes.' She halted abruptly, almost tripping Trent. 'Valerie scuba-dives?' she asked, her heart suddenly in her throat. Then why had Anthony gone to such lengths to convince her he needed a stuntwoman?' Trent looked searchingly at her. 'Didn't you know?' 'No,' said Candace. This was no place, she knew, to think this out. "But it's not important.'

Like hell it isn't, she thought, fighting down a wave of nausea. A puppet. She'd been manipulated like a puppet on a string. Anthony hadn't needed a stuntwoman. He'd fancied her as he might fancy an automobile in a shop window, or a new tennis racket, or a set of golf clubs—and, in effect, he'd taken her home to play with, without a thought for her feelings, her aims, her wants. Trent took her from the dance floor. 'Are you alt right?' 'Yes, but I wouldn't turn down a cool drink.' Candace managed to say with some semblance of calm. 'One tall, cool drink coming right up.' His blue eyes were filled with concern as he smiled briefly at her and disappeared into the crowd. Stunned, barely comprehending the implications, Candace tried to arrange her thoughts, or at least to pull herself together. She started at the touch of a rough, heavy male hand on her bare arm. The face of one of the props crew, a gross, sullen man she had seen hungrily watching her during the filming, leering coarsely down at her. He was swaying, already well into his cups. 'Hey, baby, why ain't you dancing? C'mere.' He had a glass clenched in his hand, but he moved unsteadily forward to embrace her, his face red and shining with sweat. Unable to speak, fighting back a storm of tears,she turned and ran, heedless of the crowd around her. Blindly she skirted the terrace and ran down the path to the sea—the only haven she could think of. Stumbling, she tore off her blouse, skirt, and sandals, left them lying where they fell on the darkening, deserted beach, and ran headlong into the water. Barely registering the first cold shock to her overheated body, she stuck out recklessly for the dimming horizon.

She swam on and on and on, hoping that the smooth motion through the sea, now so warm and velvety, would calm her and soothe the tumultuous churning in her brain. It was no use. She swam until her arms began to flail and splash instead of knifing cleanly through the water and a needle-like pain twisted hotly in her side. Her breath grew rasping and irregular, and still her mind was filled with the self-centred arrogance with which Anthony Belmont had manipulated her step by heartless' step into his trap. The fact that he had honourably married her meant nothing. What mattered was that she was a human being, with a mind of her own, and dreams and hopes, and he had callously disregarded and overridden them. She realised she was nearing exhaustion only when she gagged on a mouthful of sea-water. She stopped then and looked back at the shore, not surprised to see that she had come a long way—too far for her to make it back without resting. Rolling on her, back, she floated spreadeagled in the buoyant salt water, trying to catch her breath. And the calm she had sought in her wild swim came to her as she lay there, floating up and down on the gentle, barely perceptible swells. The water was so lucid she might have been in a swimming pool, had the sea not been so vast and herself so small a speck. The glossy, murmuring swells glistened with gold and turquoise under the sinking sun, and the mauve and purple sky was like a huge inverted bowl under the very centre of which she lay. It was very pleasant lying there with no voices, no sounds but the whispering, soft rush of the billows. Did she want to go back at all? The question framed itself in her mind as she lay there bobbing gently, with the water lapping quietly at the back of her neck. Who did she have who really cared about her? Not Anthony—he cared only about his own wants, not hers or anyone else's. But even as the vague, seductive thoughts ran through her mind, she knew she could never do it. Life was a gift of incalculable worth,

and not to be squandered. Besides, there was going to be someone who would care some day . . .an unborn someone whose first signs of existence she had begun to suspect only in the last few mornings. No, even without Anthony life was immeasurably dear, and she had more than herself to think about. A wavelet slapped into her, and Candace, instantly alert, rolled off her back and began to tread water. It hadn't been a wind-caused ripple, she was sure of that; it had been the result of movement in the water near her. Even before she saw it—from the moment she'd felt it—she knew somehow what it would be. And then there it was, cutting through the water just a few yards away; the sharp, triangular, dorsal fin of a shark. And beneath the surface, sinister and menacing, the sleek grey body moved with smooth confidence, swimming leisurely by her. A cold fist of fear squeezed her heart, and yet at the same time a shaky laugh almost welled up inside her. Was it possible? At the fiery instant she had affirmed the value of living was it to be snatched away? And—here the hysterical laughter came close to boiling over—was it to be like father, like daughter? She turned slowly in the water, her eyes glued to the steely, lithe body that circled her. Her father had been killed by a rare, random attack of a Great White, while she had been inviting a shark attack: swimming until exhaustion had made her thrash the water irregularly and catch the animal's attention, and then floating on her back in the middle of the, sea as if she were indeed in a swimming pool. If she'd wanted to, she couldn't have issued a more appealing invitation to a hungry predator. But this predator didn't seem to be hungry. The thought finally pierced her sluggish mind as she watched the shark cruise in its languid circle. She repeated the words to herself, and the blind panic that had begun to chill her receded slightly. It was curious; only curious. Her heart,

which had seemed to stop, began to beat again. No one could predict what a shark would do, but she might yet have a chance. The ray of hope cleared her mind enough so that she could concentrate on the fish. It was only about five feet long, and although she didn't know which species it was, the chances were good that it was one of the vast majority of sharks that only attacked humans when provoked. And Candace, forcing herself to tread water slowly and rhythmically, had no intention of provoking it. In the distance she could hear an outboard motor coming closer. Flicking her eyes towards it, she saw a speedboat churning up a tremendous spray of white froth in its wake. It was coming from the direction of the villa. Could someone have seen her swim away? Involuntarily Candace sobbed. Please let it be Anthony, she prayed. She knew she had little strength left. Her arms and legs were achingly heavy and moved through the water as if it were glue. And her eyes throbbed from watching the shark and staying alert for its attack signs: the pointing of the pectoral fins downward, the arching of the back, and the telltale elevation of the head. Not that she knew what she'd do if the shark did decide to close in. If she'd had her gear a sharp blow to the sensitive nose with the knife's heavy handle would more than likely send it swimming away. The icy fist clenched savagely in her chest again as the shark, with a malevolent flick of its sinewy tail, narrowed the radius of its circle. Panic welled up inside her again. She had to do something . . . anything! She couldn't just wait until . . . Swallowing a deep gulp of air, she jack-knifed deep below the deadly surface—the region of most shark attacks—thrusting down and away with an underwater breast-stroke. She pulled herself through the water towards the boat, not daring to look back, expecting any moment to

feel the sand- papery snout of the shark nudge her thigh, or the saw-like teeth . . . She had made only a few yards before her already fatigued lungs, screaming for air, forced her to surface. And there it was. It had followed her and was now resuming its slow circles around her. But now it was even closer. Gasping, sobbing with exhaustion and fear, she forced herself to keep treading water with movements now jerky with weariness. She was unable to take her eyes from the circling thing, and once when it angled on to its side she saw the horrible, grinning gash of its mouth. Where was that boat? Hadn't it seen her? Wasn't it coming for— With a swoosh of creamy foam the red-fibre- glass flat bottom of the speedboat loomed into' Candace's vision. The graceful form tipped, swung around, and shuddered to a stop. And as it did, the noise and the swirling wake that shot from its stern sent the shark fleeing towards the open sea. Candace barely saw the lean, dark form diving into the water, but she knew it was Anthony. At the touch of that strong arm slipping securely around her, her rigid body went limp with relief. 'It wasn't hungry,' she whispered to him, on the edge of hysterical laughter, 'just curious.' 'A condition I damn well share!' he growled at her, the lines of his face drawn and grim. 'You look scarier than that shark,' said Candace, then giggled, then plummeted deep into a bottomless, soundless well of darkness. She was vaguely aware of hands lifting her carefully, and of the faint, echoing babble of voices. There was the vigorous massage of a rough towel over her entire body, and then she finally drifted off into oblivion in the comforting security of Anthony's arms.

'It's just exhaustion. I've given her a sedative, and she'll be fine after a good night's sleep.' The gruff voice was unfamiliar and Candace had no idea how long she'd been out, but she didn't have the energy to open her eyes to find out who it was. Dreamily she drifted off again into a safe, warm oblivion. Anthony was sitting on the side of the bed watching her when finally she awoke, his face drawn tight and lined with fatigue. He must have sat up all night watching over her. She opened her mouth to thank him for saving her, to tell him what it meant to feel his arms clasp her in the water, but somehow it wasn't thanks that boiled to the surface. 'You didn't need a stuntwoman for Valerie. It was a lie.' Her heart knocked against her chest as she whispered it. 'So that's what . . . Trent said you were upset over something.' An expression^ of pain flitted across his features. 'That's hardly reason for trying to kill yourself!' 'But I wasn't,' she protested, pulling herself upright and then sliding dizzily back to lean against the headboard. 'I just wanted to go somewhere. . . to be alone and think.' 'Well, next time, try a stroll along the beach,' he said harshly. 'Good Lord, sometimes I think you have the brains of a four-year-old! If you ever do anything that stupid again, you'll have more than a goddamn shark to contend with!' Candace dropped her eyes, her auburn hair tumbling forward to partially obscure her face. Her childish, foolhardy swim seemed of little importance now, and she had more than learned her lesson. 'The

stunt job was a trick, wasn't it? And so was that trumped-up Customs incident. You knew I'd be questioned about my knife . . .' Her voice was muffled and shaky. 'Then you got your mother to help with the finishing touch—' He stopped her by putting his fingers to her lips. 'All right,' he said. 'All right, you're right about the rest, but my mother pulled that little manoeuvre on her own.' His voice was husky and subdued. 'I knew the quick marriage was a mistake, and you were being rushed into something you weren't' ready for. I guess that that magical time we spent at Tharros had me thinking a little less clearly than usual. But since you had fallen in love with me . . .' Candace looked up tj see him give a helpless little shrug. Her lips trembled. 'But it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair!' Her voice was angry and accusatory. 'You knew I was physically attracted to you—I'm sure with your experience that was easy enough to tell. You knew that all that was needed was a little close proximity, and so you played me along like a puppet on a string.' 'You're making it sound more cold and callous than it was,' Anthony retorted, his face darkening. 'Sure, I could feel a magnetism between us, but you made it pretty clear from the start you weren't going to have anything to do with someone in the movie industry.' His eyes narrowed, and sarcasm edged his words. 'That kind of close-minded stuffiness isn't that unusual, but you're a little young for it. However, I'm beginning to suspect you were born that way.' 'And what if I was?' His expression hardened; Candace could see he was working at keeping his temper. 'I thought if you learned a little about my profession—not by me telling you about it, but through experience— you'd see that it was as demanding as any other. So I arranged the stunt job. I thought it might change your attitude about movies. . . and about

me.' His lips compressed into a bleak and bitter line. 'I knew it was crazy to go to such lengths on the strength of a single encounter with a girl I'd met out of the blue, but it was a gamble that seemed worth taking.' She stared fiercely back at him, hating the brilliant mockery in his eyes, wanting to hurt him. 'Well, it didn't work! Do you know, I spend most of my time wondering how an intelligent human being can be content to spend his life doing something as ridiculous as making movies, for heaven's sake!' She knew her contempt was mirrored in her face and she made no effort to hide it. 'How can you stand to live with yourself?' Anthony laughed with a harshness she had never heard before. 'Your problems are worse than I thought! You're not only stuffy; you're one of those self-righteous, cold-blooded prigs who are too blind to see that people need more from life than food for their bodies and food for their ail- hallowed intellects/ he sneered. 'You just won't accept the idea that they—unlike you—might need a little nourishment and relaxation for the soul!' Candace, quailing in the face of his blazing anger, wished she could draw back from the heat of it, but she already felt the rigid rattan headboard biting into her back. Disgust replaced anger in his eyes. 'It's a great pity I had the misfortune to fall in love with you, because that narrow little thing you call a mind makes me sick?' 'Good!' she cried, not meaning it, while her mind reeled. It was her worst nightmare come true. She hadn't wanted it to come to this, but what was there to do? After what they had said to each other there was no going back. There was only one thing left to say. Heartsick and wretched, she said it: 'Then you'll be happy to give me a divorce.'

'Never.' He leaned over and gripped her by the shoulders, his fingers trembling with intensity. She froze, sensing the violence in him as he stared at her, his dark eyes piercing her very soul. 'We've obviously made a mistake, and I'm willing to accept most of the blame, but it's a mistake we're going to live with.' Suddenly his voice changed, became gentle, and his rigid grip slackened. 'You're young . . . too young, I guess, and if I hadn't rushed you things might have turned out differently. And they still may, if we give them time.' 'No, they won't,' Candace said wildly, her throat clogged with pent-up tears. How could she change her attitudes about life, about the point of living? With time, Anthony would find those attitudes a personal reproof; he would be bound to grow to hate her. And once he learned she was pregnant— if she really was—he would make it impossible for her ever to leave him. With his connections, it would be easy for him to prevent her from gaining custody of her child. No, the break had to come now, before it was too late. 'I want to divorce you,' she said bitterly, 'and I don't want you to ever touch me again!' It was said in rancour, to hurt him, to anger him into giving way . . . but mostly, she knew, to hurt him. Anthony dropped his hands from her as if he'd been burned. He stood and looked down at her, his anger all the more frightening for its icy control. At his temple an artery pulsed sluggishly. 'A divorce is out of the question. As for the other,' he said, with a cold, tortured fury that froze her heart, 'that will be just as you wish. I won't. . . touch you again. But neither will any other man. Not for as long as I live.' His brown eyes, seeming almost black, blazed down at her, and for the first time she was genuinely physically afraid of him, but ne turned on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him with a crash that shook the pictures on the walls.

CHAPTER NINE IT was the rustling of the Monterey pine limbs brushing against the slate roof that awakened her from a deep, dreamless sleep. Groggily her mind took in the sleek, cream-toned richness of the unfamiliar bedroom. For a moment she blinked confusedly, wondering where she was. Then with a sinking heart, she remembered; she was 'home'. They had arrived in Carmel the night before, after an exhausting two-day trip from Sardinia, and she had gone straight to bed. And now she had awakened as mistress of all she surveyed; mistress of Anthony Belmont's palatial house and grounds. She wondered irrelevantly if Becky had been reading about her, and she smiled wanly. How Becky must envy her—and how readily Candace would change places with her! She stared dully at the closed door that separated her room from Anthony's. She had slept for eleven hours, and still she didn't feel like herself, or even rested. Queasy and hollow-stomached, she sat up. The movement set off a dull ache in her head, and she fell weakly back against the soft, goose-down pillow. Jet-lag—it had to be. She just couldn't really be pregnant. All she needed was some toast and tea, and she'd be her usual self. Thankful that the housekeeper had shown her how to use the in-house intercom system the night before, she reached over, flipped on the transmission key and shyly gave her breakfast order to Mrs Charles. Within minutes, the housekeeper appeared with a tray which she briskly set up over Candace's lap. Tucked neatly into a niche in the side was a copy of that morning's San Francisco Chronicle. That was the way Anthony must take his breakfast, but Candace doubted that her aching eyes would submit to follow a printed line.

'You look a little tired.' There was a note of concern in Mrs Charles' voice and a slight frown on her plump face as she gave Candace a respectful but frank appraisal. 'Didn't you sleep well?' 'Actually I did,' said Candace, biting her lip and dropping her eyes to avoid those kind but probing ones. 'I'm not used to travel . . . It's jet-lag, I suspect.' 'No doubt,' Mrs Charles agreed reluctantly. 'Please call me if you want anything else, Mrs Belmont.' The freshly-squeezed orange juice went down like nectar and the hot tea that Candace laced with cream and sugar tasted so good and so fortifying that she poured herself a second cup. True, the toast, perfectly golden-brown and brushed liberally with butter, didn't appeal to her. The idea of butter, in fact, positively revolted her—a most extraordinary reaction. She was considering whether to try to eat the toast anyway, when, with a brief warning tap, Anthony sauntered through the connecting door. 'Good morning,' he said in calm, casual tones. Candace swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, and nodded faintly. 'Sleep well, I hope?' Walking over to the west wall, he pulled open the curtains and flooded the room with sunshine and with a ravishing view of blue sea, trees and sand. Since their bitter fight before leaving Sardinia, Anthony had been cold and aloof, never attempting even the least intimacy . . . barely speaking to her, for that matter. But now that they were faced with living together, day in and day out, he was obviously diplomatically establishing the tone of their new relationship; and that tone was apparently to be civil and cool.

But she didn't want to be civil and cool, Candace reflected unhappily. She wanted to rant and scream until he gave in to her demand for a divorce. Frustrated, she glowered at him instead of speaking, knowing full well that with Anthony it would be useless to indulge in emotionality. It only took one look at the implacable, stubborn line of that assertive jaw to know she could scream the house down and it wouldn't budge him. Reading her thoughts, he gave her a little mocking smile, then broadened it when his eyes fell on her breakfast tray and he saw the single slice of toast sitting on its gold-bordered plate in lonely splendour. 'Hunger strike?' he said laconically. 'Don't bother—it won't work.' Furious, Candace muttered, 'I'm sure it wouldn't. I'm just not hungry.' Then she bit her lip, but the unwise words were already out. They had joked too often about her appetite, and he had been an uncle too many times not to know the signs of pregnancy. She saw a look of uncertainty and concern flicker over his face. Hoping to allay his transparent suspicions, she added hurriedly, 'It's a snack. I thought I'd have breakfast after I dress.' 'Good. We can breakfast together on the terrace,' he said easily, going to the intercom. It seemed to Candace, as she listened while he gave Mrs Charles instructions, that he was deliberately ordering the biggest breakfast he could think of. Only a few bites into a horrifying plate of steak and eggs, hash browns, broiled tomatoes, and homemade biscuits—did she ever like such stuff?— disaster struck. Candace barely made it to the bathroom before she began to retch convulsively. Weak and dizzy when it was over, leaning her forehead shakily against the cool tile of the bathroom

wall, she passively accepted the glass of water Anthony drew for her and then let him gently bathe her clammy face with a cool, damp cloth. 'Off to bed with you now,' he ordered, steering her by an unresisting elbow. There was sympathy in his voice now, as well as a distinct note of suppressed excitement. 'I'll call and get you a doctor's appointment.' A maelstrom of emotions whirled inside her. She had lost not only the battle but the war, and was now irrevocably trapped; a bird in a gilded cage. It was clear that Anthony felt no such turmoil. He was thoroughly delighted with the turn of events. The examination started out routinely, but as it went on the doctor's questions sharpened and seemed to grow more solemn. Dr Eckert maintained his bland, professional expression throughout, yet Candace knew there was something wrong. But how could there be? She'd never been sick a day in her life, aside from the usual childhood measles and chickenpox. And there just couldn't be anything wrong with the baby . . . there just couldn't. She wouldn't be able to bear it if there were. Later, after she had dressed and joined Anthony in the doctor's office, her fears were confirmed. 'I won't mince words with either of you,' the doctor said slowly, as he put on his reading glasses and opened Candace's new medical chart, which lay on the desk in front of him. Her stomach knotted in apprehension and she could hear Anthony straighten nervously in his chair. 'I'm afraid, Candace, you might be in for a difficult pregnancy. Your blood pressure is abnormally high. Now, it could turn out to be nothing serious, but there is a possibility you might develop and condition called eclampsia in the latter stages of your pregnancy.' 'Eclampsia?' Candace repeated the ugly word, her heatt in her mouth. 'What is it? Would it threaten my baby's life?' She didn't know when Anthony had taken her hand, but she was grateful for the warmth and strength of his fingers.

'Yes, It could,' he said soberly. 'Both your life and your baby's. But let me emphasise again that abnormally high blood pressure during pregnancy is only a warning, not a confirmation. But it's extremely important for you to follow all my instructions most rigorously.' He took the glasses off, tilted his head forward, and looked at her from under arched, bushy eyebrows. 'And for someone like you that isn't going to be easy.' Candace was puzzled. 'Why, Doctor?' Dr Eckert permitted himself to smile. 'Because you're a very active persons-your superb condition and your muscle tone make that obvious. Seven months of neither physical activity nor emotional stress of any kind—any kind—will probably be rather difficult for you. But that's exactly what I want you to do—rest, relax, slow down.' Difficult wasn't the word for it. It sounded worse than a jail sentence. But Candace swore to herself that she'd do whatever she had to do to increase her chances of a successful delivery, even if it meant she had to spend seven months on her back. 'You're right, Doctor,' Anthony said drily. 'My wife doesn't believe in rest or relaxation. But I assure you, she'll learn, even if I have to chain her to my wrist to make sure.' To Candace's indignation she could hear a note of grim satisfaction in his voice. As soon as they had left the building she let fly. 'You're the limit, Anthony Belmont! Obviously you're getting some sort of perverse pleasure from Dr Eckert's orders. If I didn't know better, I'd think you somehow got him to say—' She stopped abruptly. Was it possible? Could he have? It would hardly be the first time he'd been underhand with her.'Don't be ridiculous,' he said flatly, taking her by the arm and steering her back towards the door. She hung back. 'Where are we going?'

'Since you probably don't believe me, you can ask the doctor about it.' 'All right, I believe you. I'm sorry.' Then she flashed a defiant look at him. 'But let's get something straight right now. I want this child, too, believe it or not. I'm an adult, and I'm perfectly capable of following the doctor's directions without your help. No wrist chains are needed!' she added, her voice rising. 'Really?' The sardonic gleam in his dark eyes pushed her temper up another notch. 'And I suppose this is an example of your new calm, unemotional approach to life?' He was right, of course; she coloured as she realised it. Two minutes out of the doctor's office, and she had already forgotten his injunction against excitement. 'Look, Candace,' said Anthony, 'we have to call a truce.' His tone was painstakingly even and rational; she had a feeling she would be hearing it a lot in the months to come. 'Our personal differences are unimportant now. It's the baby we have to think of.' He frowned, his eyes clouding as he gazed at her, then raised his hand in a gesture of defeat. 'Later, afterwards, we'll talk . . . about a divorce.' She hurriedly dropped her eyes so he wouldn't see the sudden pain that must be reflected there— pain that cut through her like a knife. How bitter and unpredictable life had become! His words should have made her happy. He was practically promising her a divorce. And wasn't that what she wanted? What she'd been begging him for? But walking with him to the car, having heard him say it at last, she only felt sick and adrift, and there was a twinge of irrational jealousy towards her unborn child. Clearly, Anthony had transferred his affections. And why shouldn't he? She'd tossed his love black in his face when she told him what she thought about the life he'd chosen for himself. Could she blame him? Not really, common sense told her, but it didn't make the pain of losing him—of having lost him—any easier to bear. All she

wanted to do now was to run to a private corner somewhere and cry until there weren't any tears left. With her lips set, she pushed down the rising emotion. She could no longer afford to indulge herself. She had to push her feelings to the back of her mind, no matter what the cost. She had lost Anthony, but she wasn't going to lose his child.

Months slipped by, and their days fell into a quiet, predictable pattern. As much as possible, Candace followed Dr Eckert's orders. Eliminating physical activity was easy compared to capping her emotions. To think about her hopeless—if not destructive—love for Anthony brought her nothing but pain and agitation, and still, when her guard was down, there the thoughts were, insidious and razoredged. Anthony, attentive and solicitous, created a luxurious, cocoon-like environment for her, but gone totally was the electric current of physical awareness that had always been between them. She might have been his sister, taking up a temporary residence in his house. Sometimes she couldn't help wondering about their future relationship. Again and again she fantasised fleeing so she would never have to set eyes on that strong, handsome face, or feel the throbbing of her heart if that tall, lithe figure stood too near her. But no, she would always conclude, she had to be sensible for their baby. Perhaps after the divorce she could live nearby and they would both share the child's love and the responsibilities that went with it. Sensible and sane, she thought grimly, and it was going to be hell. Brushing the thoughts and the images away, she turned her mind to other things. The initial months of rest, to tell the truth, hadn't been as hard as she had anticipated. Candace had been in such a turmoil of emotions over her relationship with Anthony ever since the episode

with the shark that she hadn't realised something had radically changed inside her on that fearful day. Moments of quiet and idle reflection no longer terrified her. Indeed, sometimes she now welcomed the opportunity to think about things . . . about quiet things, about what she wanted in the long run out of life. That compulsion to rush heedlessly along down a sort of endless corridor of life was gone, at least for the moment. And then there was Huffy. She had been just a wet, bedraggled, hungry ball of brown fur when Anthony first thrust her into Candace's arms. Brown eyes limpid, and tail wagging weakly, the puppy thrust out a little pink tongue and licked her hand tentatively. 'Poor little thing!' Candace exclaimed. 'Where did you find her?' 'Wandering along the side of the highway in the rain.' Anthony's eyes moved slowly over her face. Her absorption and concern for the puppy had brought back the image—it seemed so long ago—of the spunky, wetsuited girl sheltering the little seal. As it had then, the sight lanced his heart. For one brief moment his anguished love for her flickered in his eyes, as did the old physical longing, but Candace, intent on examining the little dog for injuries, didn't see it. There was an unsettling fragility about her these days, and Anthony took care to seal off his emotions before speaking. 'I'll advertise in the paper,' he said, 'but there's not much chance of finding her owner.' 'If not, can we keep her?' 'Why not?' he said with a rueful grin. He had planned on getting her a dog anyway— few activities calm and relax people more than stroking a pet—and he had rightly suspected when he had first spotted this forlorn, big-eyed little mutt, that it would

win its way into Candace's heart faster than a pampered animal with a bona fide pedigree. Fed, washed and groomed, Fluffy lived up to her name and blossomed into an affectionate companion who could provide Candace with hours of entertainment, or sit contentedly at her feet while Candace sat in a great soft leather armchair and stared out at the sea. It was while she sat one day, looking at a grey, stormy ocean, with Fluffy dozing on her lap, that she calmly admitted to herself that she was as ignorant and narrow-minded as Anthony had said she was. She had been wildly indignant when he had thrown the accusation at her, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. And now, many hours of quiet reflection had convinced her that it was so. In high school anything that hadn't pertained to science had been virtually ignored. Information on the arts or the humanities, on history, sociology, language, had been retained only long enough to pass the required tests. And at college she had yet to sign up for a single non-science class. All her life, education had meant science, only science. But now she wasn't so sure. The ruined grandeur of Tharros, the austere, incomprehensibly ancient nuraghi, the sense of ancient times that was in the very air of Sardinia—all had awakened in her an interest and appreciation of the past she hadn't, known was there. It didn't take Anthony long to guess the direction of her thoughts when he saw her standing hesitantly in his library before the thick, formidable volumes on the history shelves. To her relief he made no attempt to tease her. He simply nodded his head and diplomatically made some recommendations. 'Why not go about it a little differently?' he asked. 'You might like to try a good, well- researched historical novel. They can bring history alive in a way a textbook can't. Here,' he said, handing her one, 'try this.'

Later, when she had finished the book—Robert Graves' I, Claudius—and followed it with Claudius the God, she shook her head. 'I don't know if I've learned anything,' she told him. 'I got so caught up in the story, and the time became so alive to me, I forgot I was supposed to be learning history.' Anthony laughed. 'There's no rule, you know, that says learning can't be entertaining. Besides, if first-century Rome is alive to you, I'd say you'd learned something.' Autumn melted into winter as, butterfly-like, she skimmed the surfaces of history, philosophy, literature, and then the arts. 'You'd appreciate art more if you tried if yourself,' Anthony suggested, when he saw her reading Irving Stone's biographical novel of Michelangelo, The Agony and the Ecstasy. Without saying anything further, he had a small studio fitted out with art supplies for her. She started with a clay sculpture for which Mrs Charles had kindly, if reluctantly, consented to be the model. After two weeks of effort, though, it was clear that sculpting was harder than it looked. 'I don't think I have what it takes,' she said to Anthony, when she showed him the results. 'Hm,' he murmured noncommittally. Cocking his head first one way, then another, he walked around her work table, looking at the modelled head from every angle. Finally he cleared his throat. 'Very interesting.' 'Talk about tactful comments!' scoffed Candace, rescuing her work from Fluffy's inquisitive nose. 'Awful, isn't it?' she giggled. It looks like a cross between Neanderthal Man and Godzilla. Mrs Charles will never forgive me!'

Anthony laughed. 'Michelangelo didn't become a great sculptor overnight, either.' 'Yes, I know. The more I worked on it the worse it got.' She tucked a stray wisp of reddish-gold hair back from her cheek. 'Maybe three dimensions are one too many for me. I wonder if I'd do better at oil painting.' 'How about drawing or pastels for the present?' he cautioned. 'You wouldn't want to work with turpentine and paint-thinner fumes.' He dropped his gaze meaningfully. 'Not in your condition.' Candace looked quickly up at him, her eyes alight. As considerate and regardful as he had been since that first visit to Dr Eckert, she had seen behind his every action an unceasing, overriding concern for the welfare of the baby. Concern for her was something new. 'It might,' Anthony continued evenly, 'harm the baby.' She sighed and glanced down at h r swelling figure. Impossible as it seemed, there were only six weeks before the baby was due. A wave of melancholy washed over her. She wished it was six years. How different her attitudes were from what they had been only a few months ago, when all she had wanted was to get away from Anthony and his cheap, shallow world. But slowly—day by day, week by week—she had come to appreciate and respect Anthony more, and to respect that world of his, too. How childish her old prejudices about art and literature—and motion pictures—seemed now. Did it really have to happen? When the baby came must she lose Anthony? Again she looked up at him, trying to say with her eyes what her pride made it so hard to put into words. He misread her expression completely. It's not long now.' He spoke with studied, impersonal patience. 'You and the baby are doing fine,

now that your blood pressure has stabilised. Before you know it, you'll be able to pick up your old life again.' His indifferent reference to their coming separation crushed her, and with her throat tight, Candace couldn't bring herself to speak. Fighting a rising tide of emotion that threatened to breach the dykes she had so carefully built, she scooped Fluffy up in her arms. 'I think I'll rest now,' she somehow managed to say, and fled. Desperately needing to calm herself and to take her mind off the future, she flipped on the television set as soon as she reached her room. Relieved to see that a movie was just starting, she stretched out on the bed to watch it. She closed her eyes for a moment and massaged her forehead with her fingertips, trying to rub the tension out of it. She looked at the set again just in time to read the title: Climb Every Mountain. To her delight she saw that Trent Howard was starring in it. His co-star was Corinne Wayne. She had heard the name before, but where? In a moment it came to her; a reporter on the dock had asked Anthony what Corinne Wayne would think of his sudden engagement. They must have dated ... or had an affair, more likely. She was further discomposed to see that the film had been directed and produced by Anthony. Before Candace could decide whether she really wanted to put herself through the experience of seeing it, the opening scenes rolled across the screen with Trent and Corrine Wayne on horseback. A zooming close-up of the actress—blue-eyed and raven-haired—showed that the woman was ravishingly beautiful. Jealousy, pointless as it was, flared inside her, and she knew she should have turned off the set. But of course she couldn't. At some point her fascination with and instinctive dislike of the starring actress faded away, and Candace was caught up in a stark, ultimately triumphant drama.

It was the story of a champion athlete who broke his back in a fall from a horse and went on to piece' his life together again, pursuing a meaningful new career from a wheelchair. Under Anthony's direction, the acting and the pace were flawless, and Candace couldn't help but be inspired by the moving story. She was still staring thoughtfully at the set when a written epilogue appeared on the screen. Climb Every Mountain is a true story, based on the life of Leo J. Merriam, and was produced under the auspices of the Greene Foundation for the Handicapped. All proceeds will be used for continuing research and development. The foundation wishes to express its thanks to the individuals involved in the production—all of whom volunteered their time to make it possible. And special thanks to Anthony Belmont, without whose inspiration and guidance this project would not have been possible. Had there been a hole for her to disappear into, Candace would have crawled into it. With no one there to see her, she blushed, then shuddered with embarrassment, remembering how insolently she had told Anthony he was wasting his time directing movies. With one 'frivolous' motion picture he had probably done more good than she could hope to do in a lifetime of marine biology. Countless people had been affected by this one movie, made better for it. How could she ever look him in the face again? Shuddering, she turned her face to the pillow and let the hot tears of mortification and regret come. They brought her little comfort.

'Anthony?' Candace called, knocking softly on the connecting door to his bedroom so as not to startle him out of a dead sleep. It was three o'clock in the morning. 'Anthony?'

Light flooded the crack under the door and she could hear him bounding out of bed and across the room. 'What is it? Aye you all right? Can I get you something? Why are you dressed?' His words tumbled over each other as he wrenched open the door. Candace bit back a smile. Anthony's impressive and authoritative sense of command had deserted him; he had become plainly and simply jittery as the baby's birth drew closer, and she had found it both charming and endearing. In the last couple of days, she had spent more time reassuring him than the other way around. 'It's the baby ... I think she's coming.' Anthony froze and turned grey right before her eyes. 'But she can't!' he cried out hoarsely. 'You have an appointment to have her at eight o'clock in the morning. It's all arranged!' His eyes were wide and aggrieved beneath his sleep-touselled hair. This time Candace couldn't help herself; she laughed. 'We know that, but obviously the baby doesn't!' As if to underscore her words, she was hit with a slightly stronger contraction. She reached for the back of the nearby chair and held on. 'Oh—' 'My God!' gasped Anthony, running to the telephone. 'The doctor, I've got to call the doctor!' 'It's too early,' Candace told him as she got her breath back, 'they're not coming five minutes apart yet, and I read in my book—' 'I don't give a damn what the book says,' he interrupted, dialling furiously. A thought struck him and, receiver to his ear, he turned so quickly towards her that he had to grab the telephone before it fell off the nightstand. 'What do you mean, yet? When did they start?' 'A couple of hours ago, but—'

'A couple of hours!' he yelped. Candace was saved a lecture when Anthony spoke suddenly into the telephone. 'Dr Eckert? It's Anthony Belmont: The baby's coming! Now!' Anthony listened for a moment. 'What do you mean, stay calm? I am calm! But what the hell should I do?' He must have listened only to the beginning of the doctor's reply. 'The hospital! Of course, the hospital!' Candace watched Anthony hang up on the doctor—probably not an unusual occurrence in the life of an obstetrician—and shook her head in amazement. The baby's decision to arrive on her own and a little ahead of schedule was throwing Anthony far off his stride, but it had elated Candace. Her baby's capriciousness was bringing an unpredictable, unscientific, and very human element back into her pregnancy—an element Anthony had taught her to value, although she had yet to tell him so. All along the scientist in her had been marvelling at the medical advances that had made it possible for her to confidently carry the baby to full term, secure in the knowledge that her little girl had all the right chromosomes and was developing normally. Yet a small part of her couldn't help but be disappointed by the lack of spontaneity of it all. Why, she had been pregnant only sixteen weeks when a medical sampling of amniotic fluid had told her the baby's sex. (Anthony's reaction had pleased her; he had been just as elated at the thought of a girl as of a boy.) Her doctor's decision to induce labour in the light of her pre-eclampsia was prudent, and Candace couldn't help but agree to it, though it made everything seem even more mechanical and cold-blooded. Ironically, Anthony was for science all the way when it came to the health of his child, and he thought that having one 'by appointment' was the most sensible idea he'd ever heard. Certainly, Candace reflected wryly, watching him rummage desperately in the closet for something to wear, it was his very over-confidence in science that

explained his utter lack of readiness for this not- so-amazing eventuality. When she saw him frantically pull a pair of trousers over his pyjama bottoms and then grab the first shirt he encountered in the closet—which turned out not to be a shirt at all, but a grubby old university sweatshirt fit only for jogging—she realised that the only chance they had of getting to the delivery room in one piece was to have someone else drive. The man who could so self-assuredly and successfully direct films with millions of dollars at stake, with unbelievable time pressures, with casts of temperamental stars, and with irascible crews from contentious unions, was being reduced to a state of fumbling idiocy at the prospect of taking her to hospital. This was the way books and movies said men acted at such times; she'd never believed it until now. Judiciously, she retreated back into her bedroom to awaken Charles by intercom. No more than a minute later Anthony dashed into her room, his eyes wild. 'I can't find the car keys! Where the hell are my keys?' 'Charles has a set,' Candace said soothingly, 'and he's bringing the car around in a moment.' During the drive Anthony sat, pale and grim, holding her hand as if it would break, and periodically telling Charles to drive faster—instructions Charles wisely and respectfully ignored. If only Anthony's concern were as much for her as for the baby, Candace thought forlornly, but she pulled herself up sharply. She wasn't going to complicate things now by getting upset—not after she'd made it this far, and not at such a critical point. To keep her mind occupied she counted the minutes between contractions.

When Dr Eckert arrived at the hospital, he needed only one look at Anthony before ordering him out of the labour room. 'But—but you said I could stay with her the whole time,' Anthony protested in a hoarse croak. 'That was before I knew I'd have two patients on my hands. You're positively green around the gills!' Candace heard Dr Eckert's order with mixed emotions. With the pressure of the relentlessly building contractions, she was becoming infected with Anthony's fear. There was little doubt that she would stay calmer without him, yet at the same time she longed for him to stay. Although the doctor spoke confidently about stabilised blood pressure and a complication-free labour, there was still the remote possibility that she could go into convulsions and perhaps even die. It was Anthony she needed with her, not white-garbed, white- masked strangers, however competent. Still, she. knew at heart the doctor was right. It would be better for her and better for him. 'She might need me,' Anthony argued, cutting into Candace's thoughts. 'Aren't your parents in town?' Dr Eckert asked him. 'Could your mother come and stay with Candace?' 'Yes, they're at the Criterion, they wanted to be nearby for tomorrow,' Candace interjected eagerly. 'Anthony, do call your mom . . .' Doubt crept into her tone; on her behalf Anthony had been keeping his family at a distance. 'She'll come, won't she?' To have his mother beside her, someone who loved Anthony as much as she did, was like having him by proxy. And just knowing that Gina Belmont had gone through childbirth several times and had survived in robust health was comforting. 'She'll come in a flash,' said Anthony. 'I'll call them right now.'

'And you wait out there for her!' the doctor called after him as the door swung closed. He winked at Candace. 'I'll wager Maintenance is going to have to replace the carpet in the waiting room after ' tonight!' Anthony was well started wearing a rut through the carpet pile when his mother sailed into the waiting room half an hour later, his father in tow. 'I'm so happy you called,' Gina Belmont said tearfully, embracing him. Then she pulled back and scolded,..'Keeping your friends at a distance all these months because of Candace's health I can understand, but your own family . . . ? your own mother? 'Doctor's orders,' Anthony prevaricated, not wanting to reveal to his mother her inadvertent role in his domestic tragedy. What would it do but hurt her to know the true state of affairs between Candace and him? Besides, part of him still hoped that, against all odds, things might still work out and his mother might never need to know how incredibly wrong things had gone. 'Now, Mother,' his father interrupted, coming to his rescue, 'this is no time to go into this. Candace is waiting for you, remember?' 'The poor, poor child—' Gina paused in midstream as her son turned even more ashen at her words, and she quickly diverged from her intended course. 'But don't you worry. She'll do just fine, and so will the baby; you'll see.' 'That's right, son, don't worry about a thing,' his father said as soon as they were alone. 'From long experience, I can tell you it doesn't do any good, and anyway, there's nothing to worry about. With modern science . . .' Don't worry . . . nothing to worry about . . . How easy to say those words, and how meaningless they were. He felt cold sweat continue to

collect on his forehead as his father droned on. How could he not worry when the only woman he had ever loved—ever would love—might die at any moment? And to think how happy he had been to find out she was pregnant, knowing it would tie her to him longer . . . perhaps long enough to give him a chance to mend the relationship his precipitous and ill-thought-out actions in Sardinia had shattered. But somehow he'd botched it, seemingly over and over again, and now that very child endangered her life. For a brief, crazy moment he hated the baby, then shook his head to clear his brain. He had to get hold of himself. It could be hours yet. And she might need him. 'Hey, what do you say to a cup of coffee?' Anthony focused his mind with an effort. 'No, you go ahead, Dad. I'll stay here.' He raked his fingers through his hair. His father jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'We don't have to go anywhere; there's a coffee machine in the corridor outside.' 'Oh. . . sure, then.' Anthony was vaguely aware of drinking an endless succession of cups of cardboard-flavoured hot liquid, and of pacing the small room until he knew every stain on the carpet, every cheerful picture on the wall, every yellow daisy on the wallpaper. But he had only started living again when a tired but beaming Dr Eckert appeared in the doorway an eternity later, undoing his mask. 'The baby's eight pounds, six ounces and already making herself heard!' Anthony struggled to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. 'Candace?'

'Came through it like a trooper. Give her six weeks and she'll be out doing laps across a swimming pool.'

CHAPTER TEN CANDACE knocked over the lipstick on the dressing room table as she reached for her brush. The tube dropped, bounced, and then rolled under the bed. 'Darn!' she muttered, stooping down to retrieve it. As she stood up, the high heel of her sandal caught the hem of her dress, and there was an ominous ripping sound. Bleakly she examined the damage. At least half the hem had come unravelled. If only the doctor hadn't said yesterday that her blood pressure was back to normal, Candace thought mournfully, she would have been able to plead illness and let the celebration following Teresa's christening go on without her. It irritated Candace that Anthony—who had reverted to his usual, maddeningly composed self soon as the baby v as born- -was still acting as if the charade was going to go on. She had resolved to let him continue until after the christening. Her strength hadn't totally returned, and she hadn't felt up to the stress that was sure to be involved in breaking up. Besides, the tiny, gurgling infant brought them both so much delight that she hadn't found the heart. And so she had put it off. Tonight, she vowed again to herself, they would discuss how to proceed with the divorce. It was time she picked up the pieces and started her life over again. She decided the dress was a loss. Truthfully, the simple blue frock, which had been appropriate for the church service, had made her feel out of place among the guests, most of whom were turned out in the latest fashions, and dressed to the teeth besides. Thank goodness she could fit back into the clothes Mrs Belmont had purchased for her. And there was one that she had yet to wear that would be perfect for the party.

All the guests seemed to have made it back from church, because there were people everywhere, spilling off the terraces and on to the lush lawns. Anthony, with a group of people clustered around him, was across the terrace near the buffet tables. He looked up to see her standing hesitantly at the door, excused herself from the group, and moved swiftly to her side. 'You look stunning,' he said huskily. 'Motherhood becomes you.' Candace shivered. As innocent as the words were, there was a sound to them she hadn't heard in a long time, and suddenly that old, once-familiar spark of electricity leaped between them. It was a sensation she hadn't felt since Sardinia, so many long months ago. Nervously, she put a hand to her throat. 'Thank you,' she said, her mind whirling. She knew he could turn that aura of sensuality on and off at will, but she hadn't thought she would ever be on the receiving end again. 'You can thank your mother's good taste.' Anthony glanced down at her dress. From a high-waisted pleated bodice, a fall of smooth mother-of-pearl silk clung and rippled as she moved. Although the neckline was high in front, behind it plunged to her waist, showing almost all of her tanned, creamy back. 'Anything looks good on a woman who looks like you,' countered Anthony, pulling Candace's arm through his and leading her towards the group. 'Is Teresa asleep?' 'Your mother's rocking her to sleep now. She insisted. And of course, the babysitter is ready to take over, if the rest of us ever let her.' Candace spoke mechanically, but inside she was confused and uneasy. When they reached the others, she had no time to think further about Anthony. They became separated almost at once, and as hostess she

was forced to circulate. To her surprise she found herself enjoying herself as she chatted with an assortment of people, in particular with Trent, Max, and others from The Emerald Sea. And all the people she had invited from the Marine Station showed up as well. It was lovely to reminisce and get caught up on the events of the last year. 'Sorry you couldn't have been there when we released your seal,' said Dr Dresner, between canapes. 'Zonker, was it?' 'Bonkers,' said Candace, smiling. 'That's right, Bonkers. My,' he remarked, 'this liver pate is excellent! In any case, we couldn't wait for your return from Sardinia. If we'd kept him any longer he'd have had a terrible time adapting to the open sea again.' Watching Dr Dresner eat so heartily made her realise she was famished. Heaping some red caviar on a small buttered toast triangle, Candace answered, 'I wouldn't have wanted that.' 'Of course not.' The marine biologist tucked away a stuffed mushroom. 'Delicious! By the way, did you know Greg finished his doctorate?' 'No. I've been completely out of touch.' Candace sipped some of her champagne while her eyes played over the guests. 'I'm looking forward to seeing him. He's coming today, but he said he'd be late.' 'Don't be surprised if he forgets altogether. That young man's a workaholic. At the rate he's going he'll burn out at forty.' He shook his head soberly. 'He's too intense, too driven.' Candace smiled. 'I think my husband once said something along those lines to me.'

'I can well believe it, young lady,' Dr Dresner, said firmly. And then, more gently: 'It's been good for you, this marriage, I can tell. Are you going to be able to juggle being a wife and mother with finishing your education?' 'I think so. Teresa comes first, of course, so I'll only want to go to school part-time.' As for the wife part, Candace said sadly to herself, there was nothing to juggle. Over Dr Dresner's shoulder she saw a familiar touselled head of hair. 'Here's Greg now,' said Candace, excusing herself, and moving happily towards her old friend. Approaching him, she faltered a little at the expression she saw in his eyes. It was quite clear what he thought of her new surroundings. Shades of my old self! she thought wryly, tilting up her chin slightly. 'I'm glad you could come, Greg. It's wonderful to see you.' Greg ran a hand through his ruffled hair. 'I can only stay a moment.' Laughter, music, and animated chatter filled the brief pause. At the unusually loud popping of a champagne cork, Greg's mouth turned down, and Candace barely managed to hide her smile. I know exactly what you're thinking, she said silently. Aloud, she said, 'At least you have time for a glass of champagne?' 'Well. . . sure, I guess so.' A hovering waiter filled Candace's glass and handed one to Greg, who sipped it as if it might explode in his face. 'I never thought I'd see you in an environment like this,' he said. 'Like this?' Candace echoed, feigning puzzlement. 'What do you mean?'

Greg waved a dismissive hand. 'Hobnobbing with the idle rich. I suppose your husband will expect you to fritter your time away jet-setting around.' She glanced around. 'Actually there aren't many idle rich here. Almost everyone here works in Hollywood.' 'Work?' Greg scoffed. 'You call standing in front of a camera for a couple of hours a day work?' Oh dear, thought Candace, was I really as bad as this? 'I'm afraid you're making the same kind of snap judgment I made at first,' she said patiently. 'Believe it or not, it takes a lot of diligence to make it to the top in the movie industry, just the way it does in any field—maybe more, because the competition is so intense . . . and that's not even mentioning the tremendous amount of creative talent that's needed.' Anthony's amused voice startled her, 'Do I hear the sounds of a lecture in progress?' Candace looked over her shoulder and met his eyes. Not surprisingly, they gleamed with humour. She coloured. Tongue-tied, she stood there, forcing Anthony, a hand at her waist, to introduce himself to Greg. Then to her relief, Greg, after a few mumbled sentences, took himself off to speak to Dr Dresner. As soon as he was gone, Anthony couldn't resist teasing her. 'I never thought I'd hear you defending film-making!' To Candace's consternation, her eyes blurred with tears. 'Oh, Anthony, I've been so wrong!' 'At times,' he agreed, giving her a lopsided grin, 'but you were—' 'There you are, Anthony darling! Sorry I'm late, but my plane was delayed.'

Candace recognised the velvety, musical voice at once and needed no introduction to the beautiful, blue-eyed raven-haired woman who threw her arms around Anthony's neck. If possible, Corinne Wayne was even more beautiful in the flesh than she had seen on screen. 'And this is the lucky girl who managed to ensnare you.' The actress spoke lightly, laughingly, yet there was an undertone of jealousy in her voice. Or was Candace imagining it? 'Candace, this is Corinne Wayne,' Anthony supplied. 'I know,' said Candace, unable to keep from thinking how happy the woman was going to be when she heard about the divorce. 'I saw you in Climb Every Mountain a few weeks ago.' She included Anthony in her gaze. 'It was magnificent. Both of you must have felt a terrific sense of accomplishment.' She managed a calm smile. 'I'm sure you two have lots to catch up on, so if you'll excuse me . . . ?' She turned away before either of them could speak and was quickly swallowed up in the crowd. Anthony saw to it that the party ended early , and had arranged fcr his family to stay at a hotel in Carmel Valley, so that Candace would not be overtired. Actually, she wasn't tired in the least, but as she stood with Anthony at the front door waving off the last of the guests, she said, 'It was a lovely party, but I'm exhausted; I think I'll go to bed early.' 'Sure you wouldn't like some dinner first?' Anthony asked solicitously, loosening his tie. Candace shook her head. A quiet dinner would only mean conversation, and she wasn't up to talking about the divorce tonight, vows or no vows. After checking to see that Teresa was still asleep, she went to her room, fighting a suffocating gloom. She changed into

her night clothes, but instead of going to bed she curled up in a chair to' watch the distant waves, phosphorescent in the moonlight, crashing against the pale, dimly white crescent of Carmel Beach. She had barely settled when the connecting door opened and Anthony walked in. He had not knocked. Candace looked up in surprise. Once she had retired, he had always left her strictly alone. 'Is there something you want?' she asked, heart in her mouth. Darn him for being so attractive! 'Want?' he repeated innocently. 'What could I possibly want, coming to my beautiful wife's room on a lovely moonlit evening?' 'Don't be silly.' She said it bravely, but her slate-green eyes were very big. 'We haven't been husband and wife since Sardinia.' 'Eight months and fifteen days,' he replied drily, undoing the top buttons of his shirt. 'A hell of a long time for me to have to treat you with kid gloves.' 'But we're getting a divorce,' she said incredulously, standing up. 'You said so.' 'I said we'd talk about it.' There was an undertone of infuriating laughter in his voice. 'There's a distinct difference.' He shrugged. 'I would have told you anything you wanted to hear. The point was to get your stress level down. Doctor's orders, remember?' 'You mean you never intended to give me a divorce?' she gasped. 'And here I've been moping around dreading the day we'd part? I'll never forgive you!' She dashed for the door, her emotions so confused she wasn't sure what she felt. In three steps Anthony intercepted her, putting two strong arms around her.

'Let me go, you beast!' She tried her hardest to struggle out of his grasp. At least she thought it was her hardest; she wasn't even quite sure of that. 'I liked it best when you were directing that soap opera,' he said, grinning. 'It wasn't until today I realised that you'd switched to high tragedy these last few weeks.' Abruptly he lifted her up and tossed her on the bed. 'So you saw Climb Every Mountain and changed your mind about my profession, is that it? Were you planning on divorcing me anyway out of pride, but carrying a torch for me the rest of your life?' 'Stop laughing at me!' Her voice was muffled and shaky as he sat beside her and gathered her into his arms. 'You can't possibly still love me.' She burrowed her head into his shoulder so he wouldn't see the tears that streamed down her cheeks. 'I've been such a fool. I thought everything you were doing was for the baby.' He pulled his shoulder away and pushed the heavy hair back from her face so he could look at her. 'Of course I cared about the baby—but about you, too, darling... I don't think you'll ever know how much. If anything had happened to you life wouldn't have been worth living for me. Couldn't you guess that,' he added sheepishly, 'from my coming apart at the seams when you went into labour?' Candace smiled through her tears at the memory. 'And you haven't been a fool,' he continued, his dark, fathomless eyes holding hers. 'You just needed time to grow into a woman—the beautiful woman before me now.' With exquisite tenderness his mouth moved across her wet cheek and then suddenly captured her lips with a passion that dazed her and fed a hunger for him that had lain dormant far too long. But through the

intensity of what she was feeling, she had to explain, to apologise. It wasn't just Climb Every Mountain, it was much, much more . . . She pulled her head back. 'Darling, I want you to know that I think—' 'Did I ever tell you that you think too much?' he drawled. 'Today's lesson: In situations like this, follow the dictates of your heart, little one, not your head.' Then, as if a plug had been pulled, all the will power he possessed suddenly drained out of him, and he hauled her close against him. Bending his dark head, he put his lips on the fluttering pulse in her throat, then trailed kisses down her trembling skin to the cleft between her breasts. Instinctively digging her fingers into his shoulders, Candace arched towards him as her remaining fears and worries dropped weightlessly away. If all the lessons she had to learn were as easy as this one, they were going to be a cinch.