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understand.'

Some spark of vitality had been extinguished in her, leaving a shell of a woman behind,

and Francis frowned at the change in her. 'I don't think you do.'

Her smile was faint. It did not reach her eyes. She looked at him clearly, wryly. 'In the

end, does it really matter?'

The phone rang again, and he glared at it. All the pressure, all the tension had lined him

again with the wounds of his unforgiving game. Kirstie's smile then reached her eyes,

her wryness turned on herself. Corrosive obsession, indeed. How could she have

entertained the hope that there might be room for her as well? 'Answer your phone call,

Francis,' she urged him gently.

He picked up the receiver, spoke into it. She gathered her bag off the floor by the couch

where she had left it, and walked out of his apartment.

'Wait!' Francis shouted, and, if she had but seen it, this was the harshest blow she had

dealt him yet. He hesitated just that instant too long, then slammed the receiver down

and raced flat out for the lift down the hall. The doors were closing, and Kirstie's eyes

were covered by one hand. She didn't see him. Though he knew it was useless, he

continued to the gleaming metal doors, placed his hands on them, and after a long

moment bent his head.

Then he straightened, turned with terrible composure and walked back to his apartment,

glitteringly beautiful and not merely empty but desolate. The phone was ringing again.

After a thoughtful moment, he sighed and picked it up. Then after a lengthy, statistic-

oriented conversation, he checked the time and made a few more phone calls.

Get your priorities right.

* * *

had weathered the storm of doubt and regret, and now felt empty, drained of everything

but conviction. All her whirling confusion had been burned to ash by the passage of the

night, spent in unsleeping torment with improvident disregard for her own stamina. By

some extraordinary sense, she thought at times that she could touch Francis's own

restless conjecturings, his unstinting search for the truth to his own needs.

Had she moved too fast, had the conclusions she jumped to yesterday been, by any

chance, wrong? She didn't think so. Walking out on Francis had not been an act of pique

for the moment, but one of clearsighted ruthlessness, forgoing all the heartbreaking

discussion and drawn-out pain.

By leaving him she had shown that she would not accept second place, and would not,

out of consideration for him, beg or coerce anything out of him that he was not willing

to give. Could he change? Could he lessen the all-consuming demand on his time,

thinking and life to make room for tenderness? Just as importantly, could he do so

without future reproach?

She didn't know. She couldn't guess whether the phone would some day ring for her, and

had to exist, for the sake of her own sanity, without hope, for hope without realisation

was unbearable.

Her own priorities had fallen into crystalline simplicity yesterday with that instant,

awesome recognition of the depth of her love for him. Love, more potent than passion,

more considerate than selfishness, had broken that consuming fever and brought her to

peace at last.

She would give him anything, even if what he needed most was nothing at all.

The sun was rising; at long last the night was over.

She called, out of the depth of her exhaustion, for endurance and somewhere, somehow,

found it. Life went on, even after revelations that brought one to a standstill. There were

duties to be performed, there was work to be done, and after a shoulder-shaking sigh

Kirstie rose from her seat and made coffee.

Distantly she heard the sounds of the shower running and knew that Louise would be

down shortly for breakfast, and the start of her day. Louise, beautiful and dangerous, had

always known far better than she how to survive. She found it in her heart to pity simple,

kind-hearted Neil who had fallen in love with Louise only to be slashed to the quick.

Her sister had gone out last night, glittering with glamour and illicit excitement. Kirstie

had already been locked in the silent privacy of her bedroom and so had not witnessed

Louise's whirlwind return to the house, though she'd heard it in the emphatic slam of the

front door, and other sounds that heralded the climactic end of either a successful

evening or disaster. Louise's reaction to both ecstasy and fury were the same, violent in

nature and tempestuous.

Kirstie knew she was about to face the aftermath, and braced her weary self for Louise's

entry half an hour later.

'Good morning,' she said quietly, as behind her the kitchen door swung open. She

reached into a cupboard for a mug. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

'Yes, please!' replied Louise briskly. Kirstie poured it and turned, halting for a moment at

the picture before her.

For Louise that morning was staggering. Dressed in a stunning outfit of royal blue and

high-heeled pumps, her lustrous blonde hair twisted into an elegant knot that emphasised

a long, tempting neck and heart-shaped face, each feature delicately, artistically 'tinted

with tasteful make-up, she wore her beauty like a burnished tiara, hard, jewelled and

sparkling.

Kirstie set the coffee carefully on the kitchen table, while Louise stalked towards the

refrigerator and pulled out orange juice, then turned back to smile at her with blue,

charged eyes. 'Well?' murmured her sister. 'How do I look?'

'Fantastic,' replied Kirstie simply, well aware that she herself wore her disruptive night

like a shabby cloak. She sat down and unashamedly stared. 'That's quite an outfit for

high-school chemistry.'

Louise threw back her head, exposing her long white throat, and laughed. 'This isn't for

the doubtful benefit of my chemistry classes!' she exclaimed, and the amusement was in

her voice as well, tinkling like shards of splintered glass. 'This is for my lunch date

today. I'm going out with that incredibly sexy man you kidnapped with such good

intentions.'

Everything in Kirstie stopped.

She had not been at a standstill before. How long would she continue to deceive herself,

how much more was there to strip away and learn? She had been in limbo, refusing to

give up that last tiny ember of hope, refusing even to fan it to a flame, sheltering it from

all else that crumbled to ash. But she couldn't shelter it from the cutting presence facing

her now.

Slashed.

She moved finally, and from memory aped a normal expression, an unremarkable

surprise. 'This is an— unexpected development,' she said, while those hot blue eyes tried

remorselessly to dissect her facade.

'Oh, not really,' declaimed Louise airily, settling herself with ineffable grace into the seat

opposite her.

She was too close. Kirstie felt it like an outcry jammed at the back of her throat. 'I'd been

in touch, you see, after the wedding had been cancelled, but Francis had been really too

busy the first couple of weeks to socialise, poor man. However, he called me yesterday,

we got together last night, and—well, the rest, as they say, is history. By the way, don't

expect me in for supper tonight. I expect we'll celebrate with a night on the town.'

'How very nice.' Kirstie murmured the senseless words, picked up her coffee and took a

sip of it without any of it registering. Could she breathe past the pain in her chest; did

she? She must have, for this cruel consciousness continued.

Slashed to the quick.

With an excess of good will, Louise leaned forward and captured one of her cold,

lifeless hands. 'Whether you know it or not, you've done us an incredible favour,' said

her older sister, with her characteristic impeccable charm. 'If you hadn't shaken us both

up by what you'd done, I might have gone ahead and married Neil, while Francis would

have just stepped aside with that typical generosity of his, and we all would have been

utterly miserable right now. But instead, you gave us each the shock we needed to make

us put our lives right, and we owe it all to you.'

'You don't owe me anything,' said Kirstie through motionless lips, and Louise,

unsurprised, smiled.

'And how typical of you too, darling. Oh, God, look at the time!' She swept, cat-smooth

and sinuous, to her feet and carried her empty cup to the sink. 'By the way,' Louise

continued, with such an enchanting mixture of embarrassment and delight, 'is it possible

for you to do me another tremendous favour? If you aren't already planning to go out

this evening, do you think you could absent yourself from the living-room so that I can

bring him back for coffee—afterwards? I'll lug the television up to your bedroom if you

like.'

'No, that—won't be necessary,' she whispered, through a rising wave of nausea. She

couldn't bear being in the same house with them together. 'I have a feeling I'll be

working this evening.'

'You are a love!' Louise danced over and brushed her cheek against Kirstie's, so as not to

smudge her lipstick. 'I really must run now, or I'll be late for class! Bye!'

The tremors began as Louise's light, energetic footsteps tapped towards the front door.

By the time the house was shrouded in emptiness, Kirstie's hands and face had crumbled

into despair. It was so unimportant, only a physical manifestation of the ruin inside. No

one was even around to see it, yet the feeling was so naked, she cradled her body against

it.

Get your priorities right, Francis.

It was such supreme irony, to think that she had worried for him more than she'd worried

for herself. She had underestimated Francis to the very end. He had taken her advice to

the fullest extent, and his clear-sighted ruthlessness had far and above outstripped hers.

She could see the rationale behind it, and it was faultless. There could not be a better

choice of one materialistic enough to disregard his long working hours for the benefits

of living such a luxurious lifestyle. No compromise was necessary with Louise, who was

so adroit at looking after herself that he needn't bother. Lavish her with credit cards and

champagne, adorn her with jewellery and furs, and she would never be jealous of his

true mistress, would play sexuality for a sometime game and not give it undue

importance, would preen in the hostess role.

Oh, Francis.

Kirstie mourned for what might have been, what would never be hers, with the

knowledge that, as with her guilt, as with her protectiveness, he neither needed her love

nor wanted it.

Then, as there was nothing else for her to do, she washed her face and dressed, her body

jerking tiredly through the meaningless motions. She packed an overnight bag, for she

was desperate to keep the distance between herself and what was to happen in this

house. Perhaps Christian might be persuaded to put her up for the night, and this

weekend she would scour the newspapers for a small apartment she could take closer to

the airstrip.

And in the meantime she would go and work herself past exhaustion, where there was

still this appalling pain, to a barren state where nothing could exist, where the passage of

the night went unremarked in destitute slumber. And when the next day dawned she

would do it again. Some travesty of life went on, even after the most debilitating

revelations.

She knew intellectually that somewhere, some time after the test of endurance, she

would stop hurting so much inside. She might even be able to meet Francis, with his arm

around her sister, and smile. Adults were like that. But for now she couldn't help crying a

little for the appalling pain that existed.

CHAPTER TEN

'CHRISTIAN'S a no-show,' said Paul wearily just after lunch. With an uncharacteristic

display of temper he threw a clipboard with the day's schedule off his desk. It hit the

tiled floor with a resounding slap. 'Damn his unpredictable hide.'

Kirstie sat in his office with a peculiar quiet as if she had abandoned her body, her

expressionless eyes watching her eldest brother. Her face looked as if it had been cut

from unkind stone, the planes and hollows under her eyes and cheeks chiselled without

the redeeming quality of colour. None of her customary mischievous bounce was in

evidence; it was as if a totally different personality had taken her over. Occasionally

throughout the morning people asked if she was feeling all right, to which she replied

with a courtesy made hideous with the lack of sincerity, emotion, any normal human

reaction.

Now what she said in response to Paul was, 'Don't judge him too harshly. He's never

skipped out without some kind of warning before. There must be a reason for his

absence.'

'Oh, I know,' replied Paul, expelling a short, impatient sigh. 'But that doesn't get cargo