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dropping in for the evening.
    She sat on the bed and waited, and presently he came in. There was a large chest of drawers at one end of the room and he went to it and pulled open one of the drawers. She could see his things were neatly folded and he drew out a pair of white jeans and a blue shirt, tossing them over to her.
    ‘Put those on,’ he said.
    She caught them, almost overbalancing, and it was her turn to protest.
    ‘I can’t wear these—they’re yours. Isn’t there something of Benita’s I could use?’
    ‘I don’t go into Benita’s room, and judging by the sight of you in one of her nightgowns I doubt whether any of her other clothes would be an improvement. You’ll have to make do.’ He shut the drawer and ducked his head under the doorway as he left. ‘When you’re ready, go out on the patio. We’ll eat out there, it’s cooler.’
    Minella held the pants and shirt with reluctance. They had been washed many times and creases which regularly appeared when the material was moulded to his body had become immune to the iron. She didn’t want to put them on. There was something too personal about the touch of them against her skin, and it took a little while to overcome the automatic rejection. But she had to wear something or she wouldn’t be getting any dinner, so she had no choice.
    Sam had narrow hips. The jeans were not too bad a fit round her waist and when the legs had been rolled up half a dozen times they were fairly presentable. The shirt was a different matter. It fell off her shoulders much as the nightie had done, and she found the only way she could keep it on was to knot it firmly across the front. Then she picked up the brush and drew it through her hair, wishing it could have been shampooed. Sam’s impression of her wasn’t going to improve much when he saw this urchin, but it couldn’t be helped. It would have been nice if she’d been able to make an entrance on to the patio looking a picture of sophistication even in borrowed gear, then his expression might have registered something other than mere tolerance. But you had to be tall to look good in just any old thing, and Minella hadn’t a hope.
    When he saw her he smiled. The steaming bowls of soup in either hand were set down on the table while he studied her, whether with amusement or approval she couldn’t tell. It made her uncomfortable, and she slipped quickly into the chair he indicated.
    The soup was delicious, and she guessed it was made with fresh vegetables, but she would have enjoyed it more if she hadn’t been aware of Sam’s continued scrutiny. She savoured each spoonful, afraid to look up because she knew if she did she would meet his eyes. It was unnerving and showed a lack of manners that aggravated her so much she put down her spoon and met his gaze full on. Damn the man, he was enjoying her discomfort!
    ‘I haven’t taken a vow of silence,’ she said. ‘Have you? You haven’t spoken a word since we sat down.'
    'This isn’t a smart restaurant requiring smart conversation.’ He pushed aside his dish. ‘I’m sorry, Sparrow, I’m not used to entertaining.’
    A lamp on the table attracted moths and she watched them flutter helplessly against the glass. Why should she feel equally helpless in the presence of this enigmatic stranger? He was treating her well and she wasn’t afraid of him, yet she had the feeling he would rebuff any real overture of friendship. Was it possible that he was the one who was embarrassed at having a girl here in his house all night.
    ‘Is it me you don’t like, or people in general?’ she asked. ‘You’ve really shut yourself away from civilisation, haven’t you?’
    ‘It’s the way I like it,’ he said. ‘And how could I possibly dislike a little thing like you.’ His hand covered hers in a brief gesture of reassurance, but she drew it away immediately. ‘Except when you throw things at me.’ Her cheeks coloured and she looked down at her hands, fingering the