ome ten minutes later Shane was alighting on Fifth Avenue at Seventy-seventh Street.

Since he had lived in Emma's apartment for the first three months he had been in New York, the doorman on duty knew him, and they exchanged greetings before the man turned to the intercom to announce him.

Riding up in the elevator to the tenth floor, Shane discovered he had a tight knot of apprehension—or was it anticipation?—in his chest. He cautioned himself to watch his step with Paula, took a firm grip on his emotions and arranged a pleasant smile on his face. When he reached the duplex, he hesitated for a split second before ringing the bell. As he lifted his hand to do so the door suddenly opened and he found himself staring into Ann Donovan's pleasant Irish face.

"Good evening, Mr. O'Neill," she said, stepping back to let him enter. "It's nice to see you."

"Hello, Ann, it's nice to see you too." He walked in, closed the door behind him, shrugged out'of his overcoat.

"You're looking well."

Ann took his coat. "Thank you, and so are you, Mr. O'Neill." She turned "to the coat closet, and added, "Miss Paula's

waiting for you in the den."

But she wasn't. She was walking across the spacious hall toward him, a bright smile of welcome on her face.

The impact of seeing her hit him in the pit of his stomach, and the shock sped down to his legs. For a moment he was rooted

to the spot, unable to move or speak. He recovered himself swiftly, stepped forward, the smile on his face growing wider.

"Paula!" he exclaimed, and he was surprised that his voice was steady and perfectly normal.

"You got here in record time, Shane," Paula said. "It's just seven-thirty."

"Not much traffic tonight." His eyes were riveted on her as she drew to a standstill in front of him.

Paula looked up at him, her eyes glowing.

He bent forward to kiss her proffered cheek, took hold of her arm with one hand, drawing her closer, then he let his hand fall away quickly, afraid of even the merest close contact with her.

She began to laugh, staring at him.

"What is it?"

"You've grown a mustache!" She eyed it critically, her head on one side.

"Oh. Yes..." His hand went to his mouth automatically. "Of course"... you haven't seen it."

"How could I? I haven't set eyes on you since April."

"Don't you like it?"

"Yes... I think so," she said haltingly, then linked her arm through his, led him into the den, continuing to talk. "You certainly look fit as a fiddle. My God, that tan! And all I hear is how hard you're working in New York. I bet if the truth were known you're really leading an idle life on the golden sandy beaches of the Caribbean.'

"Fat chance of that. The old man's a slave driver."

He was glad when she let go of his arm and moved away from him, putting distance between them. She walked over to the small chest at the far side of the room. He hovered near the coffee table, watching her as she plopped ice into the glass. He noticed that she poured scotch, added soda, without asking him what he wanted. But why would she ask? She knew what he drank. He caught sight of the basket of violets and smiled and then suddenly she was beside him, offering the drink.

He took it, thanked her, asked, "Aren't you having anything?"

"Yes, a glass of white wine. It's over there. I'd just poured it when you arrived." As she spoke she sat down in the armchair near the fireplace, lifted the goblet. "Cheers, Shane."

"Cheers." He lowered himself into the chair opposite, relieved to be sitting down. He still felt shaken, unsteady, and so extremely conscious of her he was slightly alarme'd. You'd better be careful, he thought, and put down his glass on the end table. He lit a cigarette to hide his nervousness, and discovered, as he puffed on it, that he was unexpectedly tongue-tied. He glanced around, admiring the room as he usually did. He felt comfortable here. Emma had used a mixture of light and dark greens, a colorful floral chintz on the sofa and chairs, and some rather handsome English Regency antiques. The ambiance gave him a sense of home, evoked nostalgic feelings in him. He said, at last, "I practically lived in this den when I was staying here."

"Funny you should say that. So do I." Paula leaned back in the chair, crossed her long legs. "It reminds me of the upstairs parlor at Pennistone Royal, although it's smaller of course, but it's cozy, warm, and lived in."

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "I've booked a table at Le Veau d'Or. Have you ever been there?"

"No, I haven't."

"I think you'll like it—like the atmosphere. It's a small French bistro, very lively and gay, and the food's excellent. I took Aunt Emma and Grandpops there one night, when they were in New York. They really enjoyed themselves."

"It sounds lovely. And talking of our grandparents, they'll be here again in a few weeks, on their way back to England, won't they? Are you coming home with them? For Christmas?"

"No, afraid not, Paula. Dad wants me to go down to Barbados for the holidays. It's a big season for the hotel."

"Everybody'll be disappointed not to see you in Yorkshire," Paula murmured, looking across at him, trying to get used to the mustache. It changed his appearance, made him seem different, a bit older than his twenty-eight years, and more dashing. If that was possible. He had always been the kind of man people looked at twice, because of his height and build, his dark good looks, the sense of presence he exuded.

"You're staring at me," he said. A black brow arched and his expression was questioning.

"I could say the same about you."

"You've lost weight," he began, stopped, reached for his drink.

Paula's brow wrinkled worriedly. "Yes, I have. And I haven't been dieting. You know I never do that. Am I too thin?"

"Yes, a little. What you need is fattening up, my girl, and since we're on the subject, you also—"

"You've been saying that to me all of your life, and mine," she interrupted, pursing her lips. "At least for as long as I can remember.'

"True enough. I started to say you also look tired, in need of a good rest, a holiday." He brought his drink to his mouth, his gaze leveled at her over the rim of the glass, studying her. After taking a swallow, he set it on the table, leaned forward avidly. "You've done a good job with the makeup, but then you always do. However, cosmetics don't fool me. Your face is gaunt and you've got faint purple smudges under your eyes," he remarked with his usual unnerving forthrightness. "No wonder my sister and Winston are worried about you."

This comment took Paula by surprise, and she exclaimed rapidly, "I didn't know they were. Neither of them has said anything to me."

"I'm sure they haven't. In fact, I don't suppose anybody has—they're all afraid of you, afraid of upsetting you. But not me, Beanstalk. We've always been blunt with each other, and honest. That'll never change, I hope."

"So do I." She could not help thinking about his behavior lately, the break he had created in their relationship. He had been less than honest with her about that, she was quite sure. She wondered whether to take him to task about it, then decided not to do so. Another time would be more appropriate perhaps. She did not want to put him on the defensive, create trouble on their first evening. She wanted to relax with him, enjoy his company. She had truly missed Shane, now wanted him back in her life on the old footing, needed to rekindle their childhood friendship. It was vital to her. And so she said, "It's lovely to see you and I'm so glad we're having dinner together, Shane. It'll be like old times."

She gave him such a warm and loving smile and there was such eagerness in her fine, intelligent eyes, his heart missed a beat. He smiled back at her. "It already is," he said, and realized that this was the truth. His tension slipped away and he began to laugh. "I'm not very nice, or very gallant, am I? Picking on you the minute I arrive. And despite what I've just said, you do look lovely, Paula, and as elegant as always."

His eyes swept over her approvingly, took in the scarlet silk shirt and the white wool pants. A smile of amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Now, if you'd only thought to add a purple kerchief, you'd look absolutely bang on, perfectly smashing."

Perplexity flashed onto her face. She glanced down at her shirt and then started to laugh with him. "The Herons! It never occurred to me when I was dressing, but of course, these were your colors."

He nodded, his black eyes merry, and then he stood up. He took his glass to the chest, added more soda water and ice to dilute the scotch. She had fixed the drink exactly right, the way he liked it, but he wanted to be especially careful tonight. Returning to the. fireplace, he said in a more sober voice, "Winston told me Sally stayed at Heron's Nest during all that fuss in Ireland, and I understand everything's back to normal. But how is Sally really?"

"She's marvelous. Very well. Anthony is living at Allington Hall for the moment. I expect you know she's pregnant."

"Yes, Winston told me—" He broke off, looked at her alertly. "No wonder you're done in, worn out—all you've had to cope with." He was suddenly sympathetic, and it showed on his face.

"I managed." Wanting to keep the conversation lighthearted, and long weary of family problems, Paula changed the subject by launching into a recital about Emma, Blackie, and their travels. She regaled Shane with snippets she remembered from her grandmother's long letters, tidbits chosen at random from their weekly phone conversations. She spiced up her stories with comments of her own, peals of laughter and merriment punctuating these small asides as she warmed to her subject.

Shane's laughter echoed hers, and he nodded from time to time, listening attentively, content to sit back and let her do the talking. It gave him a chance to observe her more closely, to fully enjoy her. The familiar vivacity was there, spilling out of her, and she was humorous, pithy, and gentle by turn, displaying her love for Emma and his grandfather with every word she uttered.

If her gaiety had been forced, fraudulent—on the telephone earlier—it no longer was. He had to acknowledge that she was her natural self, open, outgoing, the girl he had grown up with and whom he knew as well as he knew himself. There was an easiness between them now, after the first few strained moments, and he felt as though he had seen her only yesterday. The rift he had created in their friendship might never have happened.

As he continued to listen to her soft musical voice, a tranquility settled over Shane. He was at peace with himself, and in a way he had not been for the longest time. But then he was generally at peace when he was with Paula. They never played silly games. There were no false barriers, no affectations, no phony attitudes. They were entirely themselves, and they were completely attuned to each other as they had been since they were children.

He studied her face quite openly, no longer bothering to hide his interest in her. Its angularity and gauntness had been.softened by the warm light from the lamp behind her. It was mobile, expressive, and it articulated much about her thoughts and feelings. There were those who said Paula was not beautiful. She was to him. Her coloring was startling in its vividness, exotic, really. The shiny black hair coming to a dramatic widow's peak above her smooth wide brow, the translucent ivory complexion unstained by color, the violet eyes set wide apart, large and thickly lashed—all these features combined to create a unique kind of beauty. If he had to equate her with any of the flowers she loved to grow, he would have to liken her to an orchid or a gardenia—and yet he would never send her either—only violets. He thought of her basic nature then. She was retiring, reserved, and gentle. But, conversely, she was also intense, ardent, passionate about her likes and dislikes, and quick, intelligent, fair-minded, and honorable. He smiled to himself. She could be devious when it came to business, but that was a family trait, inherited from the redoubtable E.H. Now, as he pondered Paula,

Shane had to admit she was the most complex of women, more complicated than any female he had ever met. Yet he loved that very complexity in her which others might easily find so baffling, even disturbing. Perhaps that was because he knew exactly where she was coming from, knew the elements and forces that had made her all the things she was.

He sat back trying to see her objectively, as another man might. His gaze lingered, then he dropped his eyes. His own emotions were intruding, blinding him, making it impossible to view her with any kind of objectivity. How could he do that? He loved her, loved her desperately. He would always love her. If he could not have her, and he knew he could not, then he would have no other woman. Second best was worse than nothing at all. Also, without another woman in his life he would not be forced into making comparisons as he yearned for Paula. And he would continue to yearn for her. You mustn't think of that, he told himself, sharply. She is your oldest, dearest friend. You've missed her. So settle for friendship—if that's all you can have. And enjoy this evening for what it is, not what you think it could be in your imagination.

Paula was saying, "Anyway, that's all of my news about our indefatigable, globe-trotting grandparents. They're apparently having a whale of a time."

"Yes, it sounds like it," Shane agreed. "And Emma's a much more diligent correspondent than Blackie. All Grandpops does is send each one of us a weekly picture postcard with an obtuse message scribbled on the back. I have three I'll prize forever. One from Hong Kong, showing Chinese junks in an orange sunset, with a single word on the other side—Cheers. Another from Bora-Bora on which he'd written, Drinking your health in coconut juice." Shane grinned at her. "That's a likely story, as we both know."

Paula giggled, asked, "And the third card?"

"One from Sydney which said. Off to the outback today. What a character he is, and I must say I've enjoyed hearing your news about the two of them, their activities. It brings them closer somehow."

"Yes, it does, but now it's your turn to do the talking," Paula announced. "Tell me all about your life in New York."

"There's not much to tell, Paula," he said, thinking of his lonely existence, the barrenness of his life. "I race between the office and the hotel site six, sometimes seven, days a week, fly down to Jamaica and Barbados about once a month to make sure the hotels are running smoothly. It's the usual grind, and, the truth is, I do work like a dog."

She nodded. "I thought you were only staying in New York for six months. It's been eight already."

"Dad and I decided it would be more practical if I remained here until the hotel is finished and open, operating properly. It's a lot more practical than flying backward and forward between New York and London. Also, the islands are closer. Now Dad has indicated he wants me to stay on in the States indefinitely."

"Well, I can understand his reasoning," she acknowledged softly. Swirling the drink around, she stared down into the glass, her face thoughtful. The idea of Shane being in New York permanently filled her with sudden and inexplicable anxiety. Then unexpectedly she thought of Skye Smith, experienced the same twinge of discomfort she had felt when Merry had mentioned her name weeks ago.

Before she could stop herself, Paula said, with' a faint smile, "I suppose New York is a wonderful place to be—for a fun-loving bachelor like you, Shane. 1 bet the girls are falling all over you, queuing up for dates."

Astonishment crossed his face. "I'm not interested in other women," he exclaimed, and halted, recognizing-his slip, instantly cursing himself. He decided to let the remark slide by, aware that the less said the better.

Not understanding that he had been referring to her, Paula nodded. "Oh yes, of course, you have a girlfriend now. Merry mentioned Skye Smith to me."

Irritated though he was with his sister and her big mouth, he nevertheless managed to grin, relieved that his gaffe had gone over Paula's head. "Oh, Skye Smith's only a friend, whatever Merry has said to you. I'm not involved with her—or anyone else for that matter." He gave Paula a hard stare. "I told you, Dad's very practiced at cracking the whip these days, and I'm devoting my time to business. I don t enjoy much of a social life. I stay at the offices until all hours, stagger back to my apartment and fall into bed exhausted."

"It seems we're all on a treadmill these days," Paula said. Shane had obviously changed a great deal. He and Winston had been a couple of Don Juans, playboys, wild and reckless, according to the family gossip she had heard. But Winston had settled down. Perhaps Shane had done so as well. She was pleased he was not having an affair with Skye. Why did that woman bother her? Probably because Merry had been so scathing about her.

"Penny for your thoughts," Shane said.

She laughed. "They're not worth a farthing. Merry told me you have an apartment on Sutton Place South," she went on. "What's it like?"

"Not bad, actually. I rent it furnished, and the owner's taste is not mine exactly. But it's the penthouse, and the views are spectacular, especially at'night. The whole of. Manhattan is stretched out at my feet," and as far as the eye can see. I find myself sitting and enjoying those glittering vistas for hours on end. This is an exciting city, Paula, and challenging. I also happen to think it's beautiful, and the architecture never ceases to astonish me."

"I can tell from your voice that you like it here, but sometimes I wonder about the States—" She shook her head, her face growing serious, reflective.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't help thinking that it's a violent country. All those dreadful, mind-boggling assassinations—Martin Luther King, -President Kennedy, and then Bobby Kennedy only last year. And this past August the ghastly Tate murders in California." She shuddered. "And the hippies and the drugs and the crime and the protests."

Shane looked across at her, said slowly, "There's a lot of truth in what you say. But it's a young country in a sense, and still going through its growing pains. Things will be all right here; they'll level off, I guarantee you that. Besides, we have hippies, drugs, crime, and protests in England... everywhere in the world. The sixties have been turbulent, but we'll soon be in a new decade. Perhaps the seventies will be more tranquil."

"I hope so. Anyway, I do hope you'll invite me over to see your apartment before I leave."

"Any time you want. And talking of leaving, I think we'd better make tracks to the restaurant. I don't want to lose the table."

"Fine, I'll just go and get my things," She was halfway across the room when she stopped, pivoted to him. "I'm not very thoughtful, am I? I said you could freshen up here on the phone and then immediately forgot all about it. Would you like to use my bathroom?"

"No, no, thanks anyway. The one down here is okay. Rising, he followed her out.

"See you in a minute then," she said, running lightly up the stairs.

Shane strode across the foyer to the guest bathroom. He washed his hands and face, combed his curly black hair, stared at himself in the mirror. He wondered whether to shave off his mustache tomorrow morning. No. He liked it. He grimaced at his reflection, wishing he had gone home to change his clothes. Oh, what the hell, I'm not trying to impress Paula, he thought, and went out.

She stood waiting for him in the foyer.

She had put on a white wool jacket that matched the pants, and had flung a white mohair cape over her shoulders. She looked impossibly beautiful to him.

He turned to get his overcoat out of the closet, gritted his teeth as the familiar longing for her surged through him. He. clamped down on the feeling, knowing that the situation was useless, hopeless. She was married to Jim Fairley and very much in love with him.

All you can be is her friend, as you've always been, Shane reminded himself as they left the apartment and went down in the elevator.

Le V'eau d'Or was busy, jammed with people,' as Shane had known it would be.

Gerard came forward to greet them, smiling, as usual the genial host. He promised them that their table would be ready in ten minutes, suggested they have a drink at the small bar while they waited to be seated.

Shane ushered Paula forward, pulled out a stool for her and, without asking her what she wanted, ordered two kir royales.

He lit a cigarette, watched the bartender pour the cassis into the large wine goblets, then fill both to the brim with sparkling champagne.

Once they had their drinks, Shane turned to Paula, clinked glasses with her. "To old friendships," he said, and looked down

at her, his eyes warm.

"Old friendships, Shane."

"Do you know, the last time I had one of these was at La Reserve in the South of France... with you."

She looked at him quickly, and a smile of recollection glanced across her mouth. "I remember... you being unkind to Emily, driving the boat at a crazy speed and with such wildness. She was terrified, poor thing. Then, to make amends, you dragged us both off, pouring kir royales into us with a vengeance." She shook her head, laughing. "It was about four years ago, that summer we all went down to Gran's villa at the Cap."

"But the drinks had no effect, if I remember correctly. My escapade with the speedboat cost me dearly... an expensive silk scarf was the price I had to pay for my lack of thought and recklessness. Still, it was worth it, just to bring the smile back to Emily's face."

"She's petrified of water—so is Gran."

"But you're not afraid of anything, are you?"

"What makes you say that?" She frowned at him.

"You were intrepid as a child, tagging along after me, doing all the things I did. You were such a tomboy, quite fearless, and you never flinched, whatever the obstacle, or its danger."

"But I trusted you. I knew you wouldn't let anything happen to me, and you never did."

And I never will, my darling, he thought, filled with love for her. A lump came into his throat, surprising him. He took a long gulp of his drink, momentarily averted his face as he placed the glass on the bar, not wishing her to see his eyes. They would reveal too much.

Paula began to chat about Emily's engagement to Winston, and once more Shane was happy to let her do the talking. It gave him a chance to marshal his feelings, get a hold on them again before ihey overwhelmed him. Eventually he was able to join in the conversation in a normal way, and they covered a wide range of topics. They gossiped about their mutual friends, discussed the Harte boutiques in the O'Neill hotels, wondered about Emerald Bow's chances at the Grand National. And they.were still dissecting the difficulties of the Aintree course and the greatest steeplechase in the world when they were finally seated.

Settling back comfortably on the red banquette, Shane said,'"All I had for lunch was a sandwich at my desk, so I'm ravenous. Knowing you, you're going to say you're not hungry, but I think we should order immediately."

"But I am hungry," she protested truthfully. For the first time in months she was looking forward to dinner. Her violet eyes, resting on him, welled with humor. "However, I'll let you order for both of us. I'll have the same as you—it's safer; don't you think?"

His mouth twitched. "I believe so. Otherwise you'll want what I have, as you always did when we were kids, and end up eating off my plate and leave me starving." He winked. "Don't think I've forgotten your bad habits..."

After perusing the menu, Shane motioned to their waiter, selected sattcisson chaud, to be followed by tripes a la mode de Caen, and asked for a bottle of burgundy.

It was the custom at Le Veau d'Or for appetizers to be placed before the diners, to tide them over while they waited for dinner to be served. Two plates instantly materialized in front of them, and Shane exclaimed, "Oh good, mussels tonight. They're delicious. Try them, Paula." Dipping his fork into the mound of shellfish, he continued, "Will you be going to Texas while you're in the States?"

"I don't think so— Gosh, you're right, these are good." She munched on a forkful of the mussels, before adding, "I hope I don't have to go to Odessa. I met with Dale Stevens this morning, and fortunately things are relatively quiet at Sitex. Naturally, Harry Marriott is being his usual obstreperous self. That man is singularly without vision. He forever tried to block my grandfather, hated expansion and innovation, and he's constantly trying to do the same with us. He's still grousing about Sitex going into North Sea oil. But it's working^extremely well, as you know. The offshore drilling paid off, and we were one of the first companies to strike oil this year.- Once again, Emma Harte has proved that man totally wrong."

Shane smiled, nodded, went on eating.

Paula said, "I know Grandy gave you an introduction to Ross Nelson. What do you think of him?"

"Ross is okay. We get on quite well, actually. I suspect he's a bit of a sod when it comes to women, though. As for business"—Shane shrugged—"he's aboveboard. Very sharp, mind you, but honest. Obviously he's always looking out for the bank—that's only natural. He's been very helpful, useful to me in a variety of ways." He eyed her. "And what's your opinion of Mr. Nelson?"

"The same as yours, Shane." Paula told him about the meeting with Dale and Ross earlier in the day, confiding all of the details

would never sell her shares in Sitex; oiumc claimed, when she had finished. His black brows knitted together. "I can't imagine how Ross could think that or why he is so keen for you to sell out. He can't make a profit from insider information about stock transactions, trading—it's against the law—and as a private investment banker of his standing and reputation, he would be a stickler about legalities, staying within the law, toeing the line drawn by the Securities and Exchange Commission. No, financial gain has nothing to do with this, and, anyway, he's as rich as Croesus. Of course, if Ross helped to steer that kind of deal through for one of the bank's clients, he'd be a big man with that client, now, wouldn't he?" Not waiting for a response, Shane rushed on: "Yes, that's why he's interested in Sitex. From all you've just told me, his client wants control, or so it seems. Then again, if he's such a chum of Dale's, he's probably looking out for his buddy. He's trying to kill two birds with one stone."

"Yes. I reasoned things out the same way as you, after they'd left. Ross Nelson can pester me as much as he wants— I've no intention of talking Grandy into selling, which is what he hopes I'll do, in my estimation."

Shane gave her a cool and piercing look. "You'd better watch old Ross—he's bound to make a pass at you."

Paula was about to tell him about the roses, the invitation to spend the weekend at Ross's country home, and for a reason she could not immediately fathom she changed her mind. She said, with a dry laugh, "He wouldn't dare. I'm married. Also, he wouldn't want to upset Gran."

"Don't be so naive, Paula," Shane retorted swiftly. "Your marital status and your grandmother's displeasure would not influence Ross Nelson, not one iota. He's bloody unscrupulous, if one is to believe the gossip one hears, and I'm afraid I do." Shane did not particularly like the idea of the banker hovering anywhere near Paula, and he brought the conversation around to another subject. He began to speak about their New York hotel, and continued to do so through the first course and as they waited for their main dish.

She listened with growing interest, enjoying being at the receiving end of his confidences. Earlier, before Shane had arrived at the apartment, it had crossed Paula's mind that they might feel awkward, perhaps shy with each other, discomfited and restrained even—they had not been alone 'or spent any time together for ages. But this had not been the case, nor was it now. It was like old times, as she had predicted it would be over drinks. It had not taken them long to get back on their former footing. There was warmth and affection flowing between them, and the camaraderie of their youth was much in evidence. "

"So I'd like you to come over to the hotel, take a look round," Shane said, "whenever you have a spare hour this week. Some of the floors are finished and I can show you a few of the suites. I'd appreciate your opinion about the decorative schemes—I just received the renderings from the interior design firm this afternoon. You have such good taste, I'd like your opinion."

Paula's face lit up with pleasure. "Why, I'd love to see the hotel. I've heard quite a lot about it from Uncle Bryan and Merry. Actually, tomorrow's an easy day.for me. 1 could meet you there in the late afternoon." She leaned closer, looked up into his face, hers full of eagerness. "And perhaps you'd come back with me for dinner at the apartment. Ann told me she wants to cook for you. She said something about your favorite Irish stew. And why not tomorrow evening?"

Because the more I see of you, the more I'll want you, he thought.

He said, 'Thanks a lot, that'll be nice." He was startled that he had accepted her invitation so readily. Then suddenly, with a small shock, he knew that he intended to spend as much time with her as he could during her sojourn in New York.

He walked her back to the apartment.

It was a clear, bright evening, cool, but not particularly cold for November. After the warmth and noisiness of the bistro the air was refreshing, their companionable silence restful.

They were on Madison Avenue, drawing closer to Seventy-second Street, when Shane said, "Would you like to go riding on Sunday?"

"I'd love to," Paula cried, turning to glance up at him. "It's ages since I've been on a horse. I don't have my riding togs with me, obviously, but I suppose I could wear jeans."

"Yes, or you could go to Kauffman's. They're downtown and they have everything you'd need."

'Then that's what I'll do. Where do you ride?"

"In Connecticut—a town called New Milford. Actually, I own a place up there. An old barn. I've been renovating it, remodeling it for the past few months and—"

"Shane O'Neill! How secretive and mean of you! Why didn't you tell me about the barn before?"

"I haven't had a chance so far. We've had'such a lot of other things to talk about over dinner—more important things, such as your business affairs, our new hotel." His laugh was deep, throaty. He went on, "Would you like to see it?"

"That's a ridiculous question. Of course I would. But I will, won't I? On Sunday, I mean."

"Yes."

"If you like I can fix a picnic lunch and we can take it up with us. What time would we leave on Sunday?" Paula asked.

"You ought to leave fairly early. You see, I'll be there already. I've arranged for a couple of our carpenters to be there on Friday to work with me. I'm driving up on Thursday night. I plan to spend the weekend at the barn."

"Oh. Then how will I get there on Sunday?"

"No problem. I'll arrange for a car and driver to bring you. Unless—" He paused, exclaimed, "I have a great idea, Paula. Why don't you drive up with me on Thursday night, stay for the weekend? Surely you can take Friday off." He gave her a • quick look out of the corner of his eye, added in a jocular tone, "I'll buy you a spade. You can dig to your heart's content, make a garden for me."

She laughed. "In this weather? The ground's probably'as hard as iron. But I'd love to come up for the weekend, Shane."

"Terrific." He smiled to himself.

She linked her arm through his, fell into step with him. They walked on in silence. She was thinking of their childhood days at Heron's Nest and, although she had no way of knowing it, so was he.