'm beginning to think that Jim and I are always going to be at cross purposes, Daddy," Paula said.

David Amory, who was standing at the bar cabinet in the drawing room of his Regent's Park flat, swung around. The remark had startled him inasmuch as he had caught a most discernible hint of irritation in his daughter's voice. A dark brow lifted. "In what sense, darling?"

"He sees things quite differently than I do. Of course, that's all right, because everyone has their own vision of the world, of life, and each of us handles problems, people, and situations in our individual way, as best we can. But Jim will never admit he's wrong about anything, and he's continually accusing me of overreacting.", David made no response. A wry smile flickered and his cool, intelligent eyes held his daughter's for a split second before he turned back to the bar and refilled their glasses. Carrying them over to the seating arrangement in front of the tall windows, he handed her the vodka and tonic, seated himself opposite her.

Settling back in the chair, David took a swallow of his scotch and soda, and asked, "Does he think you've reacted too strongly to the mess in Ireland? Is that it?"

"Yes."

David nodded thoughtfully. "Do you think you have?"

"No, I don't."

"Good girl. I've always rather admired your decisiveness, your unwavering attitude, and you're one of the few women I know who isn't forever changing her mind. So stick to your guns, and don't let Jim upset you, especially when you're certain you've made the proper moves. We can't please everyone in life, Paula, and so the important thing is to be true to oneself. That's your priority."

"I know it is." Paula leaned forward, said now with some intensity, "I have enough common sense to admit it when I'm wrong, but in this instance I'm convinced 1 was wise to take the precautions I did, to clap a lid on everything, to cover us for any eventuality. It may be a status quo in Ireland, and the national papers may have treated the story in a routine way—so far. But that doesn't mean we're out of the woods yet."

"Naturally we're not, and we won't be until after the autopsy and the inquest." David gazed down into his drink reflectively.

"I didn't particularly like the wire service story that ran today in some of the papers... about the police investigating the mysterious circumstances surrounding Min's death. On the other hand, there was no mention of Anthony. Thank God for the rather stringent libel laws in this country." He looked up, frowned. "I'm just praying that none of the more sensational dailies blow the investigation out of proportion. Well—" He gave her a kindly smile, finished, "We're just going to have to sit this one out, darling. And getting back to Jim, I don't wish to sound critical, but if you ask me, he's the one who has overreacted. It was quite unnecessary for him to fly to Ireland. Your mother is coping nicely."

"Yes she is, and I'm proud of her."

Reaching for a cigarette and lighting it, David remarked, "For what it's worth, you did exactly what Grandy would have done had she been here. Throughout the twenty-seven years I've known her, Emma has constantly told me she doesn't like unpleasant surprises, and that in her lexicon prevention is infinitely better than any kind of cure. Jim may not concur with your decisions, your actions, but Grandy, Henry, and 1 do, and we've all told you so in the last twenty-four hours."

"You've been very supportive, and when Gran called me again this afternoon, just before I left Leeds, she reiterated her confidence in me, arid in all of us, actually."

"So you said. And that's the reason she's decided not to come back. Look, Paula, this may sound silly, when we're under such a great deal of tension, but please do try to relax. / certainly shall. And don't worry about Jim's attitude. Whilst I'm fully aware you want his approval, you'd be wise to recognize you're not going to get it, because he doesn't understand—" David stopped short, regretting this slip, not wishing to criticize his son-in-law. He had long been disappointed in Jim, but he had managed to keep his feelings to himself thus far. He had not even voiced them to Daisy.

Paula, quick as ever, said, "Were you going to say he doesn't understand my reasoning, or that he doesn't understand me?"

There was an awkward silence.

Paula stared at her father. David met her questioning gaze unblinkingly. He was convinced Jim Fairley did not have the slightest conception of his daughter's character or her business ethos, but, electing to go with the lesser of two evils, he said, "Your reasoning."

She nodded. "I've known that for some time now. Jim can be very naive, which is especially surprising to me, since he's a newspaperman accustomed to seeing so many of the worst aspects of people, of life. Yet his judgment is way off more often than not, and it seems to me that he looks at the world through rose-colored glasses." She let out a tiny sigh. "And, to be honest, I'm also starting to think he doesn't understand the first thing about me, or the way my mind works, or why I do the things I do."

David was conscious of the misery in her tone and he looked across at her, filling with concern at the sight of her forlorn expression and her confirmation of his own suspicions about Jim. "You can tell me to mind my own business if you want—but look here, Paula, is your marriage in trouble?"

"No, I don't think so, even though we do have our differences. I love Jim very much, Daddy."

"I'm sure you do and that he feels the same way, but love isn't always enough, Paula. You've got to be able to live with someone twenty-four hours a day, year in and year out, and comfortably so on that continuing basis. And you can only do that if there is true understanding between the two of you."

"Yes," she agreed with a faint, hesitant smile, wondering whether to pour out her troubles to her father. She decided against'it. Tonight was not the right moment. Adopting a more confident tone, she assured him, "We'll work it out, I'm certain of that, because we really do care for each other. Please don't worry, and don't say anything to Mummy, will you? Promise?"

"I promise, and I'm not going to pry, but I do want you to remember that you can confide in me any time you wish, darling. I love you very much and naturally your happiness is important to me." David drained his glass, continued, "As it is to your mother too. However, you're right, she'd be disturbed if she thought your relationship with Jim was anything less than perfect."

"You've been so happy with Mummy, haven't you, Daddy?" Paula said, thinking about their long and extraordinarily tranquil marriage, which was the envy of the entire family.

"Yes. Very. Mind you, we've had our ups and downs." David chuckled, noticing the look of genuine astonishment registering in Paula's eyes. "It's nice to know you were never aware of our rough patches, and we did have a few. But then any marriage worth its salt is never all sweetness and light. There's a marvelous line in David Copperfield which I've always been partial to, and it's very apt when I think of my marriage to Daisy: The strongest steel goes through the hottest fire. Yes, my dear, we had our troubles just like most people do. Nevertheless, we overcame them."

Paula, still surprised at -his revelation, said, "Troubles. Were they really serious?"

Shaking his head and chuckling again, David told her, "Now, when I look back, they were very piddling, but when we were suffering through theni they seemed quite monumental. Which is why I'm inclined to agree with you when you say you'll work things out with Jim. I'm sure you will, and the marriage will be all that much better. But if it isn't"—he gave her a long, hard stare—"then don't be afraid to let go, to end it whilst you're still young and can find someone else. And don't fall into the trap of staying together for the children's sake if the marriage is seriously damaged. That kind of reasoning is cockeyed, in my opinion. In the long run, everyone's miserably unhappy, including the children. Self-sacrifice of that nature is for martyrs, and they usually end up being a pain in the rear end," he finished, deciding he had said enough, if not far too much, perhaps. Still, Paula was strong, sound of judgment, and determined to lead her own life. He knew she would brook no interference. And neither he nor anyone else would have much, if any, influence on her decisions. Not now or in the future.

Thanks, Daddy, for being such a good friend," Paula said, "and for not pontificating as some fathers would. I see you've finished your drink, and I don't really want mine, so let's go to dinner, shall we?"

"Splendid idea." He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Why, yes, we ought to get a move on. 1 have a table for eight-thirty at Ziegi's.'.They went out into the hall together and as David helped her on with her coat he bent and kissed the top of her head;

making a sudden gesture of affection. She pivoted to face him, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek in return. "You're a truly special man. Daddy."

His eyes, usually so cool and appraising, filled with great warmth. "So are you, daughter."

Out on the street, David found a taxi at once, and after whizzing across town to Charles Street in Mayfair, they were being seated in the upstairs dining room of the famous club fifteen minutes after leaving the flat.

David brushed aside Paula's announcement that she was not very hungry, as he had so often done when she was a child. He took matters into his own hands, ordered Colchester oysters, steak Diane, and pureed.vegetables for them both, perused the impressive wine list with a knowledgeable eye, finally selected a vintage Mouton Rothschild, then insisted Paula share half a bottle of champagne.with him whilst they waited for the meal.

By unspoken agreement, neither mentioned the difficult situation at Clonloughlin, wanting a respite from their worry. For a while Paula did most of the talking, discussing matters pertaining to the stores, of which her father was now chairman of the board since Emma's retirement. Paula had stepped into his shoes automatically, held the title of managing director, and in consequence it was she who bore the brunt of running the chain on a day-to-day basis.

He was content to sit back and listen, enjoying her company, her wit and charm, not to mention her indisputably brilliant mind. But then his daughter had always intrigued him. When she had been growing up she had seemed, at times, more like Emma's child than Daisy's and his, in that Emma had made Paula her very own. He had vaguely resented this but had never been able to combat Emma's influence over her. Then when she was ten or thereabouts he began to understand that the child loved the three of them equally, played no one as a favorite, for 'with a wisdom that was remarkable, almost frightening, in one so young, she had made this perfectly clear to him, her mother, and Emma. David was amused when some members of the family implied that Emma had brainwashed Paula to such an extent she had turned her into a clone. He knew his daughter had far too strong and stubborn a mind to follow the leader blindly, to permit herself to become something she was not, to accept indoctrination without question. The truth was much simpler. Emma had indeed trained Paula in her ways, but his daughter was already so much like Emma this had hardly been necessary. The similarities of their characters aside, they had always been on the same wavelength and over the years this had become so finely tuned they appeared to read each other's thoughts, and frequently finished sentences for each other, much to everyone's amazement, including his own. But of all the qualities they shared, the one which truly impressed David was their'ability to bring the most intense concentration and single-mindedness to the matter at hand. He was aware of the amount of mental and physical energy this took, and he considered it a great virtue in both women, a mark of their extraordinary genius. For genius it was.

Sometimes David had to remind himself that Paula was not yet twenty-five, as he did at this moment, struck as he was by '' her maturity and her keen understanding of complex business matters. As he absorbed her words, he observed her closely, noting for the second time in the last hour her elegance and refinement. He never thought of Paula as being beautiful, and she was not, at least not in the accepted sense, because of her somewhat angular features, broad forehead, and strong jawline. Rather, she was arrestingly attractive with her vividness of coloring, her translucent complexion, and her superb grooming. Yes, it's her immense elegance, he thought; that's undoubtedly what draws all eyes to her. For the half hour they had been in Ziegi's he had not failed to miss the discreet glances directed at them from time to time. He wondered, with a small flicker of amusement, if they thought she was his young mistress.

Detecting the laughter playing aroun'd his eyes, Paula abandoned the point she was making and leaned forward.

"What's so funny, Daddy?"

He flashed her a wide grin. "I'm the envy of the men in this room. They most probably think you're my girlfriend." She shrugged, smiled, eyeing him objectively. If the other diners did harbor such a thought, it was not so farfetched, really. At fifty-one her father was a good-looking man whom women found attractive and appealing. He had a strong, well-bred face, fine, clear eyes, and a head of dark wavy hair tinged at the sides with gray that did nothing to age him. He was athletically inclined, skied and played squash in winter, took to the tennis courts in summer,.and in consequence was in excellent physical shape. Fastidious about his appearance, he was always beautifully dressed, a characteristic she knew she had inherited from him.

David was saying, "You do look quite lovely tonight, Paula. The dress has great style. Black has always suited you, of course. Still, few women could carry it off as well as you do. It is rather severe, and—"

"Don't you like it?"

"Very much so." He studied the Egyptian-style gold collar that encircled her long neck and partially filled out the squared neckline of the long-sleeved wool dress. Nefertiti, he said under his breath. Aloud he remarked, "I've never seen you wearing the collar before. It's beautiful. Rather striking, in fact. Is it new? A gift from Jim?"

Paula smiled mischievously, dropped her voice. "Don't tell anyone, but it's a piece of costume jewelry. From Harte's. I'm sure it's not even brass, and its color will probably turn in -no time at all. But when I saw it I knew it was perfect for this dress. It gives it a bit of dash, wouldn't you say?"

"I would indeed." He made a mental note to talk to the jewelry buyer tomorrow, decided to have the collar copied for Paula for her Christmas gift. He was usually at a loss to know what to give her for anniversaries and special occasions. She was not overly fond of jewels or other baubles and because of her highly individual taste it was difficult to shop for her successfully.

As the dinner progressed, David and Paula touched on many topics of mutual interest, but eventually Paula brought the conversation back to business. Slowly, with her usual self-assurance, she began to outline an idea she had for the stores.

David sat up straighter in the chair, listening alertly, intrigued by her concept, which showed intuitive understanding of the

buying public. And like so many really clever ideas it was rooted in simplicity. He wondered why no other retailer had ever thought of it.

Paula said, "You've got a peculiar look on your face. Don't you think it will work?'

"On the contrary, I think it will be a tremendous hit. Expand on it further for me, please, Paula."

She did so, finished, "But it would have to be a completely self-contained shop within the store."

"You'd need a whole floor?"

"Not necessarily. Half a floor should work very well. I thought there could be three separate salons. One selling suits, plus shirts and blouses, another for coats and dresses, and a third salon offering shoes, boots, and handbags. The key, of course, is having the individual salons adjoining each.other, so that a woman can coordinate a complete outfit quickly and easily without having to trundle up and down to other floors searching for different items. It will save mistakes, not to mention time, for the shopper. And with an imaginative advertising campaign and some clever promotion I think we can do tremendous business." She sat back, watching him through keenly attentive eyes.

"It's excellent. Yes, I'm enthusiastic. Any ideas about a name for this total shop of yours?"

"There are several very obvious ones, Daddy, such as Working Woman or Career Woman. However, I ve already dismissed those as being far too prosaic. We need a name that expresses exactly what we are about. We must put over the concept that we are selling clothes—good, well-designed clothes—to working women with business and professional careers, that we are offering a special service since we're making their task of putting a wardrobe together so much easier.'

"What about Career Cachet?" David suggested.

"Not bad." Paula frowned. "Is it too much in the other direction? Too fancy, perhaps?" she asked, thinking aloud, and before he had a chance to reply went on, "1 thought pof Career Club when I was driving to London this afternoon. But I'm not sure if that says what I want to say. Well, right now the name doesn't really matter. The main thing is to get the career shop into work. So... do I have your blessing?"

"Naturally you do, although you don't really need it." David's eyes twinkled as he reminded her, "The Harte chain is yours, Paula, lock, stock, and barrel, and you are managing director."

"But you're the chairman of the board," she shot back. "And therefore you're still my boss.".

"You always did have to have the last word, didn't you?" he murmured, and could not help thinking: As Emma always does.

"Sorry I'm late getting back," Paula apologized as she hurried into the executive offices at the Knightsbridge store on Wednesday afternoon at five minutes to three.

"How was your meeting with Henry Rossiter?" Gaye asked, rising, following Paula into the palatial Georgian-style office that bore Emma's inimitable stamp.

"No problems. We spent most of the time reviewing Grandy's other holdings. We hardly touched on the Irish mess, gave it only a few minutes after our business session. When we were having lunch, actually. Any further news from over there, by the way?" Paula threw her handbag on a chair, sat down behind the huge partner's desk that had once been her grandmother's.

"Yes. Your mother rang again. She wanted you to know she won't stay on after the inquest in Cork tomorrow as she had planned. She's decided to fly back to London immediately," Gaye explained, taking the chair opposite the desk.

"I'm glad she's changed her mind. Once the inquest is out of the way we'll all be able to breathe a little easier... I sincerely hope."

"Since the police haven't made any moves, I'm positive the hearing will be quite routine," Gaye volunteered in a quiet tone.

"Let us pray." Paula attempted a smile, then noticing Gaye's gloomy demeanor for the first time, she said, "You're not looking too happy. What's been happening since I walked out of here at eleven o'clock?"

Gaye cleared her throat. "Sorry to greet you with problems, Paula, but I'm afraid that's all we've got this afternoon."

"Par for the course this week, or so it seems. All right, Gaye, let's have the bad news."

"I'll start with what I think are the real priorities," Gaye said, lifting her head. "Dale Stevens rang you about twenty minutes ago. Not from Texas, though. He's in New York. At the Pierre. He sounded odd, worried, in my opinion. Certainly he wasn't his usual ebullient self."

Trouble at Sitex, Paula thought. Stifling her apprehension, she said, "Did he give you any indication why he wanted to speak to me?"

Gaye shook her head. "But he did ask me when you plan to visit Harte's in New York. I said probably not before November, and this seemed to upset him. He sort of bit back a four-letter word and asked, 'Are you sure she won't be over in the' States earlier than that?' I said you wouldn't, not unless there was something urgent that needed your attention. I was fishing when I made that remark, but he didn't rise to the bait."

Paula reached for the phone. "I'd better ring him back."

Gaye said, "He's not there. He went to a meeting. The message was to call him at six our time."

"That's all he said?".

"Not one word more. Very cagey, our Mr. Stevens was. I can tell from your expression that you're worried, think the worst, suspect that there's something amiss at Sitex Oil. I have to agree. He did sound awfully tense, even morose."

"As you said before, that's very unusual. Dale's always so relaxed and cheerful. But there's no use speculating. Okay. Sitex at six. What's next?"

"Winston checked in from Vancouver over lunchtime. He was also anxiety-ridden. He has unexpected problems with the Canadian paper mill. They erupted late yesterday, after you and he had already spoken. The negotiations have stalled. He's withdrawing the offer today, as you both agreed he should if any difficulties developed. He's going to give them twenty-four hours, and if it's not back on the tracks by then he's flying to New York on Friday. He doesn't want you to bother ringing him. He said he'd be in touch—either way. But he doesn't hold out much hope of making the deal. He has a feeling it's kaput."

"Damnation, that is annoying! It would have been such a good acquisition for Consolidated. We'll just have to hope he can turn the situation around. Go on, Gaye."

"Sally Harte's disappeared," Gaye murmured, giving Paula a sympathetic look.

"The fool! The silly little fool!" Paula cried, sitting bolt upright. "I told her not to go rushing off to Ireland, and I bet that's exactly where she's gone. Who called? Uncle Randolph?"

No. Emily. Your Uncle Randolph spoke to her a couple of hours ago. Emily was on her way out when she received the call. She's on her way to town right now..As you know, she has a meeting at the London office of Genret tomorrow. Anyway, apparently your Uncle Randolph is in quite a rage, although Emily says she did her best to calm him down. Emily thinks Vivienne is hiding something, knows where Sally's gone but won't talk. She suggested you tackle Vivienne when you have a moment."

Paula groaned. "I do so love Emily's advice. Why the hell didn't she speak to Vivienne when she was still in Yorkshire? This is all I need today!"

"I did ask Emily to take a minute to talk to Vivienne before setting off, but she demurred, explained that it wouldn't do any good. She said, 'Tell Paula I'm not as daunting as she is,' and she hung up before I could say another word."

"I see." The two women exchanged concerned glances. Paula looked away, focusing on the fireplace, her face reflective, and then her mouth curved down in a stern and resolute line and her eyes narrowed.

Watching her closely, Gaye could not help thinking how much Paula resembled her grandmother at this moment and she thought: I hope to God she really is as strong as Emma Harte—as we have all come to believe.

Paula brought her gaze back to her assistant. "I'll get to Vivienne later. Wherever Sally is, I can't very well remove her bodily, or force her to do as I say. Right now, business comes first. Anything else?"

"John Cross telephoned. He's in London. He asked for an appointment. Tomorrow morning, if convenient."

'Oh!" Paula exclaimed, but she was not as surprised as she appeared to be. She had been expecting to hear from the head of Aire Communications for weeks. She and her grandmother had agreed he would come crawling back eventually.

Gaye stared at her, trying to fathom her expression. It was quite unreadable. "Cross left a number, Paula," she said at last, breaking the silence. "What do you want to do? You've a fairly clear calendar tomorrow."

Pursing her lips and shaking her head, Paula admitted, 'To be truthful, I'm not sure... There doesn't seem to be much point in seeing him. I've nothing to say to that particular gentleman. I'll let you know before the end of the day."

"Your cousin Sarah's back from Barbados, and she wants to see you. At four o'clock today. She says she has to come over to the store to see the ready-to-wear buyer and could pop up for a few minutes. She was rather insistent."

"She's back sooner than I expected. I'd better see her. It can't be anything important, so it shouldn't take very long. Sarah most likely wants to tell me about the opening of the boutique and the new hotel this past weekend. Is that all of it, Gaye?"

"It's enough, isn't it?" Gaye replied dourly.

Paula sat back, surveying her. "Do you really like being my assistant? Or would you prefer to be my secretary after all? I can demote you, Gaye, if that's what you want. I aim to please in all things," Paula teased, and laughed in spite of her many worries.

Gaye had the good grace to laugh too. "Sorry I sounded so glum. And I'm relishing the new job, honestly I am. Besides, Sheila would be hurt and affronted if she was relegated to being the junior secretary again. She's so proud she works for you personally. She's very efficient, isn't she?"

"Yes, thanks to your assiduous training over the last few years."

The telephone rang. Paula glared at it, shook her head.

Lifting the receiver, Gaye said crisply, "Mrs. Fairley's office." There was a slight pause before she added, "She's right here." Handing her the phone, Gaye mouthed, "It's okay—it's only Alexander." Gaye hurried out of the room.

"How do you like being back at the old grindstone?" Paula said into the phone.

"Bloody awful after two weeks of sunshine and indolence in the South of France. But it's a relief in one sense—I don't have to cope with my mother," Alexander answered in a sarcastic voice, rushed on, "Can you have supper with me tonight? There're a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

"Serious?"

"No. Interesting, though."

"Why don't you tell me now?" Paula pressed, her curiosity flaring.

'Too involved. Also, I'm due to start a meeting in exactly ten minutes. Since you and I are both in town and alone, I thought it was a 'good opportunity to get together. Fancy dining at the White Elephant?"

"That sounds like a nice change. Thanks for the invitation, and I'd love to see you, as long as we can make it around nine. I have to work late."

"Who doesn't? And nine's fine. I'll pick you up at Belgrave Square, shall I? Around eight-thirty?"

"Perfect. Oh, and Sandy, you'd better make the reservation for three. Your sister's on her way up to London, and I'm sure Emily'll insist on joining us."

"Too true. Miss Nosey Parker has to be in on everything," he responded, with a dry laugh. "See you later."

Paula rose and walked over to stand with her back to the fireplace. The weather had turned cold in the last few days and as soon as there was the slightest hint of an autumn nip in the air the fire was automatically lit every morning, as it had been for years. Paula was glad that Emma's long tradition continued unchanged. She suddenly felt chilled to the bone, and the bright blaze was warming, also brought a cheerful aspect to the handsome room.

She scowled to herself as her thoughts settled on Dale Stevens. It was not unusual for him to be in constant contact with her, since she was her grandmother's representative at Sitex. Emma, with forty-two percent of the stock, was the largest single stockholder and had always been a power in the oil company and a member of the board. Now that Paula filled this role Dale conferred with her several times a month. On the other hand, this afternoon's call had apparently not been routine. Gaye had discerned a troubled note in his voice, and she trusted Gaye's judgment. After all, it had been the redoubtable Sloane who had discovered the plot against Grandy last year. Dale is probably having trouble with the Harry Marriott faction on the board, Paula suddenly thought. He had been her grandfather's partner when Paul McGill had founded Sydney-Texas Oil in the twenties, and he had always been difficult. Emma had managed to get him kicked upstairs as chairman of the board in January 1968, and had manipulated the board to do her will. They had voted with her, and had hired Dale Stevens, Emma's protege, as the new president. Still, some of the board members who were Marriott's cronies resented Dale, and Paula decided that they were most likely creating an untenable situation for him.

Damn, she cursed under her breath. I wish I could reach him before six. Paula glanced at her watch. It was three-thirty. Two and a half hours to wait. Well, at least she had time to sign her letters, go over the interoffice memos piled on her desk, and speak to Vivienne Harte before Sarah Lowther appeared on the scene.

Returning to her desk, Paula flipped through the memos, saw that some of them raised questions which were too complicated to deal with quickly, and these she placed on one side. After signing the morning's correspondence, she put through a call to Allington Hall in Middleham.

"Hello, Vivienne," Paula said when her cousin answered, "how are you?"

"Oh, Paula! Hello. I'm pretty good, and you?"

"Worried, Vivienne. I just heard that—"

"If you're phoning about Sally, I won't tell you where she is! I promised her. Daddy can't get it out of me, and neither will you."

Paula said with firmness, "Now, Vivienne, I'm sure Sally wouldn't be upset if you told me. I'm the—"

"Oh yes she would," Vivienne interrupted heatedly. "She doesn't want anybody to know where she's gone. Not even you. Please don't badger me, put me in this terrible position."

"You con tell me... Listen, I won't say a thing to your father, or another soul, not even Winston when he calls me later. You must know I won't break my word."

"No, I don't know that... You're expecting tne to break mine," Vivienne retorted. "My poor sister is like a wounded bird, worn-out, too, and she needs to have a little peace and quiet. Daddy hasn't stopped ranting and raving at her since Sunday night."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Look here, you don't have to tell me where she is, but would you agree to tell me where she's not?" - "What do you mean?" Vivienne asked warily.

"If I name a place where Sally has not gone, will you tell me? All you have to say is no."

Vivienne laughed hollowly. "You're trying to trap me, Paula. If I'm silent when I hear a particular name you'll know immediately that's where she's staying." Vivienne laughed again, her incredulity echoing down the wire. "Do you think I'm daft? Or green? I haven't fallen off a banana boat, you know."

"I need to know where your sister is hiding herself," Paula snapped, growing exasperated, "and for a variety of reasons which I don't propose to go into with you."

"Don't talk to me as if I'm a little kid. I'm nineteen," Vivienne cried, her own temper flaring.

Paula sighed. "Let's not argue, Viv, and I can only add this... If Sally's gone dashing off to Ireland, she's a bigger fool than I thought, because she will only be creating problems for herself, and for Anthony."

"Sally's hardly a fool! Obviously she wouldn't be stupid enough to go to Ireland—" Vivienne stopped abruptly.

Success, Paula thought with a faint smile. Her ruse had worked. She said, "If Sally happens to phone you, tell her I'm having dinner with Alexander and Emily at the White Elephant tonight. Just in case she wants to join us."

"I've got to go, Paula," Vivienne said hurriedly, after a short pause. "Daddy needs me in the stables. So I'll say good-bye now."

"Tell Sally to get in touch with me if she needs anything. Good-bye, Vivienne dear."

Paula stared at the phone for a long moment, reflecting on their conversation. Well, Sally was not in Ireland. More than likely she was not in London either, since it was not her favorite place. Could she still be in Yorkshire? If so, where? A phrase Vivienne had used echoed in her mind. She had referred to her sister as a wounded bird. A figure of speech to describe Sally's state? Or had it perhaps been an unconscious association in the girl's mind? Wounded birds tried to get back to their nests... Heron's Nest? Of course. Sally loved Scarborough, and many of her paintings were of the spots where they had spent so much time as children. That's where / would go if I wanted to hide, Paula said to herself. It's accessible, comfortable, the larder is always fully stocked, and old Mrs. Bonnyface has a set of keys.

Lifting the receiver, Paula started to dial Heron's Nest and then changed her mind. It would be infinitely kinder to leave Sally alone for the time being. Whether she was in Scarborough or not was irrelevant, really. The important thing was that she was nowhere near Clonloughlin, and this knowledge now eased Paula's anxiety about Sally Harte, of whom she was extremely fond.

"Paula?"

"Yes, Gaye?" Paula asked, leaning closer to the intercom.

"Sarah's arrived."

"Have her come in, Gaye, please."

A moment later Sarah Lowther was walking across the floor, the expression on her pale freckled face as purposeful as her step. She wore a bottle-green gabardine suit so beautifully cut it did wonders for her somewhat plumpish figure. Also, the color was a flattering contrast to her russet-red hair, which framed her face in luxuriant waves and softened her broad but not unattractive features.

"Hello, Paula," she said briskly, coming to a halt in the center of the room. "You're looking well. Thinner than ever. I don't know how you do it... it's a struggle for me to lose an ounce."

Paula half-smiled and, brushing aside the personal comment, said, "Welcome back, Sarah." She stepped around the

desk, kissed her cousin on the cheek. "Let's sit over there by the fire," she went on. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No. Thanks anyway." Sarah turned smartly oh her high heels and moved in the direction of the sofa. Seating herself in the corner nearest the fireplace, she leaned back, crossed her legs, and smoothed her skirt. She let her eyes rove over Paula, admiring the simplicity and elegance of the deep-purple wool dress. It was a marvel, and as head of the fashion division of Harte Enterprises Sarah knew it was by Yves Saint Laurent. Biting back the compliment which had sprung to her lips, she said, "Jonathan tells me the Irish lot are killing each other off... I'm surprised Grandmother hasn't hotfooted it back here."

"That's not a very nice thing to say about Anthony, Sarah," Paula gently reproved, seating herself in a chair, frowning. "Min's death was an accident, and why should Gran come back? The whole thing's going to be over and done with by tomorrow at this time."

Sarah gave Paula an odd look, raised an auburn brow. "Let's hope you're right."

"Tell me about the opening of the new hotel and our first boutique," Paula said, neatly changing the subject.

Sarah remained silent.

Paula insisted, "Come on, I'm longing to hear all about it."

"It went off well," Sarah said at last. "But then why wouldn't it? I've worked very hard for months to ensure that it would. To tell you the truth, the whole trip was a hard grind. I was on my feet twenty-four hours a day. Miranda was tied up with the hotel, so I had to really buckle down, supervise the unpacking and pressing of the dresses, get the windows dressed, create eye-catching interior displays," she grumbled. "But the merchandise I selected turned out to be 5erfect, even though I do say so myself. My Lady Hamilton resses and resort wear appealed to everyone. They said the colors were fantastic, the fabrics superior, the designs bang on. We were jammed the day we opened, so we should do record business right through the season."

"Oh I am pleased," Paula said with enthusiasm, deciding to ignore Sarah's remarks about her contribution to the boutique, which, in all truth, had been negligible. She asked, "How's Merry?"

"All right, I suppose. I didn't see much of her. The O'Neills invited a plane load of celebrities to the hotel's 'gala opening

weekend, so naturally she was busy rubbing noses with the famous."

Paula's back went up at this remark, which she deemed bitchy and uncalled for, but she wisely let it pass. "Did Shane fly down from New York?"

"Yes.".

"And?"

"And what?" Sarah asked, her voice turning huffy all of a sudden. She gave Paula a challenging stare and her face settled in cold lines.

Instantly struck by the dislike in Sarah's expression, Paula recoiled in surprise. Thrown though she was, she managed to say, "Surely you saw something of Shane and Uncle Bryan? Merry may have been rushed off her feet as head of public relations, but I can't believe the O'Neills ignored you. After all, they're family, and they're not like that."

"Oh yes, I was invited to the gala evenings. But I was generally too exhausted to enjoy them. I didn't have much fun at all. That side of it was a complete bust."

Sarah glanced into the fire, remembering her mortifying weekend of embarrassment, acute disappointment. Shane had been cruel, ignoring her much of the time. And when he had deigned to notice her he had been offhand, patently disinterested in her as a woman. He wouldn't have treated Paula in such a rotten way, she thought miserably, sinking back into herself. An image of his face leapt out at her from the flames, his expression one of immense passion and love. She blinked, wanting to expunge this from her mind. That look had not been for her, but for Paula... that terrible day of the christening... She would never forget that look or that occasion. It was only then she had realized, to her horror and distress, that Shane O'Neill loved Paula Fairley. That's the real reason he has no time for me, she said silently. Damn Paula. I detest her. Jealousy rose up in Sarah so unexpectedly and with such force she kept her face averted, willing the emotion to go away, feeling faint and sick inside.

"Well, I'm sorry you didn't have a good time," Paula murmured, attempting to be gracious, yet asking herself what she had done to engender such sudden dislike in Sarah. Paula sat back and her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. She had no reason to think that Sarah was lying about the gala weekend, but somehow she did. She considered Sarah's self-congratulatory remarks, her pleased tone when she had spoken of her hard work. How she exaggerated.

Paula could not resist adding, "So the work was grueling— that's retailing, you know, Sarah. And, let's face it, you were the one who insisted oh going to Barbados. If I—"

"And it's a jolly good thing I did, isn't it?" Sarah interjected peremptorily, tearing her gaze from the fire, swinging her head to glare at Paula. "Somebody had to be there to organize things. We'd have been in a nice mess if we'd relied on Merry, in view

of her abdication of her duties. Of if we'd left things to chance as you wanted us to do."

Paula was further astonished by this criticism and the belligerence underlying the comment. Unwilling to let Sarah get away with it, she said with some sharpness, "That's most unfair of you. I had no intention of leaving anything to chance. I had intended to fly out there myself, until you made such a song and dance about going. Anyway, you don't have to worry about the other boutiques. I've hired Melanie Redfern from Harvey Nichols. She starts next week. She will be in charge of the Harte shops in all the O'Neill hotels, and she'll be working closely with me. And Merry, of course."

"I see." Sarah shifted her position and cleared her throat. "Actually, the main reason I came to see you today is to make you

an offer."

"An offer?" Paula stiffened, wondering what Sarah was about to spring on her.

"Yes. I'd like to buy the boutiques for my division. There won't be any problem about money. We have stacks of spare cash. You see, in view of my considerable involvement with the boutiques, I'd like to have them under my aegis, make them part of Lady Hamilton Clothes. So just name your price—I'll meet it.'

Flabbergasted though she was at Sarah's ridiculous proposition, Paula retorted swiftly, "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do that, as you well know. The boutiques belong to the Harte department store chain."

Sarah stared Paula down. Her expression hardened. "So what. I'm offering you an easy way to make a fast profit. And a big one. That should please you, since your eyes are eternally glued to the bottom of a balance sheet."

"I'd like to remind you that the Harte chain is a public company," Paula exclaimed, thinking that her cousin had taken leave of her senses. "I do have shareholders and a board of directors to answer to, in case this has escaped your notice."

Sarah smiled narrowly. "Don't talk to me about the board at Harte's. We all know about the board, my dear. It consists of Grandmother, you, your parents, Alexander, and a handful of old codgers who'll do anything you say. If you wanted to, you could easily sell me the boutiques. It's your decision. Don't expect me to believe otherwise. That board will acquiesce to your wishes no matter what, as they always did what Grandmother wanted in the past. She had them in her pocket, and so do you."

Paula fixed a pair of immensely cold eyes on her cousin, and her voice was equally icy, as she said, "Harte's has invested a great deal of money in the new shops, and I have personally devoted an incredible amount of time and effort to the project for many months. I therefore have no intention of selling them to you or to anyone else, even if the board sanctioned such a sale, which, believe me, they wouldn't, not at this stage. You see, Sarah, I want the boutiques for Harte's. They're part of our growth and expansion program. Also, I—"

"Your effort!" Sarah cried, seizing on this particular point. "That's a laugh. I've worked much harder than you, and I selected all of the merchandise. Under the circumstances, it's only fair that—"

"Stop right there!" Paula warned, her face revealing her growing annoyance and impatience. "I'm not sitting still for this nonsense, Sarah. Why, you're bloody preposterous. You walk in here, commence to criticize me, then try to take credit for the success of the Barbados shop... and at the moment that's a moot point. Only time will tell us how successful it really is. But getting back to your efforts, I think you have a real nerve. It just so happens that Emily has done a lot more for us than you. She purchased every single accessory, which was no mean feat, and I recall that 1 picked out every bit of beachwear. Furthermore, Merry and I selected all of the clothing from your company—not you. I'll concede that you made the best lines available at Lady Hamilton, and designed the special evening wear, and perhaps you have worked conscientiously for the past ten days. However, your contribution to the first boutique was minor, very minor indeed."

Paula rose and walked over to her desk and sat down behind it. She finished quietly, "As for trying to buy the boutiques from Harte's—" She shook her head wonderingly. "I can only add that that's the most foolish thing 'I've ever heard, especially coming from you, when you of all people know how Grandy has structured things. Look, if you want to get involved in a new project, maybe we can put our heads together—" Paula stopped, immediately regretted her conciliatory gesture. Sarah's coldness was more pronounced than ever.

Sarah stood up without saying a thing. She made a beeline for the desk, stood facing Paula.

In a soft and uncommonly steady tone, Sarah said, "Grandmother might have other ideas about the boutiques. She may well like the idea of selling them to me. Has that occurred to you?" Not giving Paula a chance to reply, she continued in her oddly calm way, "Grandy's not dead yet, and if I know her, I bet she hasn't signed over her seventy percent of the shares in Harte's to you. Oh no, she's hanging on to those,, I'm quite certain, being as wily as she is. And so, as far as I'm concerned, she's still the boss lady around here. I want you to understand one thing... I'm not letting the matter rest here, with you. Oh no, not by a long shot. I fully intend to telex Grandy. Today, Paula. I shall apprise her of our meeting, my offer and your rejection of it. We'll see who really runs Harte stores, won't we?"

Paula gave her a regretful look through saddened eyes. "Send a telex. Send ten if you wish. You won't accomplish anything—"

"You're not the only grandchild Emma Harte has," Sarah cut in, her voice biting. "Although anyone would think it, the way you behave."

"Sarah, don't let's quarrel like this. You're being childish, and you've always known Harte's is a public—" Paula's sentence was left dangling in midair. Sarah had walked out. The door closed softly behind her.

Paula stared after her, shaking her head again, not yet fully recovered from her astonishment at Sarah's preposterous proposition and irrational attitude. She sighed under her breath. Only two weeks ago she had remarked to Emily that tranquility had reigned supreme since their grandmother's departure in May.

I spoke too soon, Paula now thought, and she discovered that the most disturbing part of the meeting had been Sarah's blatant dislike of her. As Paula continued to contemplate her cousin's unexpected hostility, she asked herself if it signaled the beginning of open warfare.