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often brought his girlfriends back here. And if her venomous
remarks on the subject of his love life held even a spark of truth, those
relationships tended to be short-lived and were rarely based on anything other
than physical attraction.
       He must be pretty experienced with
women, Julia thought, watching him warily from under her lashes. Even with that
scar he had the sort of sexual magnetism that would make most women weak at the
knees. In fact, the scar merely seemed to add to his mystique. It gave the man
a dangerous and uncompromising air which even she had to admit was sexually
provocative.
       But she was not stupid enough to
tumble into bed with a man whose book she was illustrating, especially such a
famous writer. It would destroy all hope of being able to work with him in the
future.    
       ‘So what do you think?’ Marshall
asked softly.
       ‘Sorry?’
       He grinned at her startled
expression, almost as if he was aware what she had been thinking. ‘It’s only a
Chardonnay, of course, nothing expensive. But it was a favourite back in my
teaching days and I suppose old habits die hard.’
       ‘It’s delicious,’ she agreed,
glancing down and twirling the wine around the glass.
       But she was uneasily aware of the
intimacy of their situation, sitting here together in the early hours like two
people who were already lovers. Under her own tightly belted dressing-gown she
was wearing a boyish pair of red striped pyjamas. Yet the way those tawny eyes
moved over her made Julia feel as though he could see right through them to her
naked skin.
       ‘I really ought to go to bed,’ she
said at last, pretending to yawn in an exaggerated fashion. As if by way of
response, he lifted the bottle of wine and Julia had to place a hand
apologetically over her glass. ‘No more for me, thanks. Too much wine gives me
a migraine and you wouldn’t like me with a migraine. Trust me. I become
nauseous and stumble about groaning.’
       Marshall grimaced and stood up,
slipping his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. ‘Okay, that does
sound fairly unappealing. You win.’
       ‘Goodnight,’ she laughed.
       He followed her to the stairs and
she could feel his strange eyes on the back of her head at every step.
       ‘Goodnight, Miss Summers.’
       Julia paused at the top, looking
sleepily down at him. She knew her chestnut hair was still tousled and messy from
her bedtime shower, and without make-up, she probably looked pale and
unattractive. She wished for the first time in her life that she was not quite
so gawky and dishevelled. There was something about his natural elegance that made
her overly self-aware. But she reminded herself that she did not want this man
to be interested in her sexually. That would be far too dangerous.
       ‘There’s really no need to be so
formal,’ she said. ‘I’d rather you called me Julia.’
         ‘I would say call me Owen, but no one
calls me that except my mother. Feel free to use my surname instead. Everyone
else does.’
       ‘Goodnight then, Marshall.’
       He stepped back into the shadows
like a ghost as she headed towards her bedroom, his voice floating up the
stairs on a sudden note of mockery. ‘Goodnight, Miss Julia Summers. We got off
on the wrong foot earlier this evening, but I have a feeling this could turn
out to be a very interesting partnership indeed.’

 
    Once the
light was out, it did not take long for Julia to drift back into sleep. Yet she
was haunted by odd dreams and kept waking with a jerk, startled to find herself
in such unfamiliar surroundings. It had gone ten in the morning when she
finally came back to full consciousness, neck stiff and limbs curved against
her body in a foetal position, and slid reluctantly out of bed.
       Throwing back the curtains, Julia
stood in front of the window and shivered in the cold sunlight, naked skin
tingling as she stared out over the moor and recalled her