he weeks that followed were enchanted, endless hours filled with rapture so dreamlike in quality time might have been suspended. Days merged into nights, nights drifted into dawns, and every single moment was spun out, intertwined with desire and joy that bound Emma and Paul inexorably together.

They existed only for each other, wanted only each other, rejoiced in each other. They remained in the two adjoining suites at the Ritz Hotel, rarely venturing out except for walks in Green Park and an occasional quiet dinner in a secluded restaurant off the beaten track of fashionable society. They were so wildly, so passionately in love they could barely contain their feelings for each other, were reluctant to share even a minute with friends and jealously guarded their privacy. Plans were cancelled, invitations declined, Bruce McGill and Frank held at bay, and the world was well lost for them both.

They were so overwhelmed by their sexual attraction and their growing love they were unnerved, and they would stare at each other in wonderment that this miracle had occurred. A mere glance was as devouring as a kiss, a simple gesture as meaningful as an embrace, and every word they uttered to each other was cloaked with its own significance.

Emma was filled with incredulity and overpowered by the intensity of her compelling emotions. But for once she did not pause to analyse. She was ecstatic with happiness. Fulfilment and soaring joy now dislodged the grief and hurt and humiliation of years. Love ripped the mask of inscrutability from her face; love exposed her heart in all its vulnerability; she was brought to life by the touch of love. Paul’s adoration, and his deep understanding of her, made dust out of the suspicion and self-protectiveness which were inherent in her nature and which hitherto had ruled her life. She was her true self with him in a way she had never been with another soul. All the guards were finally lowered for the only man she had ever really loved and to whom she had given herself with no reservation.

Paul was a revelation to her. His rakish pose and sardonic manner had long been dropped, but now she was also permitted to know him as no other woman had been allowed before. The reflective and introspective side of him was disclosed and she discovered there was a fine mind behind that handsome and polished façade. She was impressed by his brain and his vast knowledge of the world. She was captivated by his sophistication, and admiring of his savoir-faire that unmistakably sprang from security engendered by old money, the privilege that accompanied great wealth, and an education at Wellington and Oxford. And she was constantly entertained by his swift wit. In short, she was spellbound.

Paul, in turn, was equally besotted, held in the grips of the only genuine love he had experienced in his years of romantic dallying. He believed her to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his wanderings around the world; he also thought she was the most intelligent he had known, and her vividness of mind startled him. But the one thing he marvelled at continually was her incredible presence, that quality of personality that set her apart and made her so unique. It was as though an incandescent glow emanated from her innermost core. He could only compare it to that vitality and indefinable charisma that made an alluring actress a great star. For them both it had been a coup de foudre—as though struck by lightning, they had fallen blindingly in love instantaneously.

The days passed in a dreamy haze of passion flaring and assuaged and flaring again with a stronger brighter flame, of animated talk that continued far into the nights, of thoughts and emotions unveiled and shared. They discovered in each other all they had yearned for in a lover and a companion and their communication was a fusion of minds and souls as well as bodies.

One afternoon when they were lying in each other’s arms, exhausted by their passion, Paul said, ‘You won’t mind if I go out for a little while, will you, darling? I have a few things I must attend to.’

‘Not if you promise to hurry back,’ Emma replied, brushing her lips against his chest.

‘Nothing could keep me away from you for longer than an hour. I’ll be back by four,’ he said, kissing the strands of her hair. He released his hold of her and disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged a few minutes later freshly shaven, his black hair slicked back, a towel wrapped around his waist. From her position on the bed Emma observed him stealthily like a cat, her intent green gaze riveted on him, and she discovered she derived enormous pleasure from watching him occupied in so simple a task as dressing. He picked up his shirt from the chair and the muscles on his wide back rippled and she had to suppress the impulse to run to him and enfold him in her arms. She thought: He has become my whole world.

He buckled the Sam Browne belt on over his army jacket and strode over to the bed. He bent down and kissed her and her arms went around his neck. He removed her arms gently after a moment. ‘I have to go, sweetheart.’

‘And I wonder just where you are going,’ Emma said, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. ‘Shaved and groomed and scented to high heaven. Why, Major McGill, if you have a rendezvous with another woman I’ll scratch your eyes out. I swear I will! And hers, too!’

He grinned and touched the tip of her nose playfully. ‘O tiger’s heart wrapp’d in a woman’s hide!’

‘Waxing poetic, Major?’ she teased.

‘Stolen from Shakespeare, I must confess. Henry VI.’ Paul kissed her fingertips, his hand tightening, his eyes penetrating. ‘And if you ever so much as look at another man I will kill you.’ He stood up. ‘Be a good girl. I won’t be long.’

After he had left, Emma busied herself with telephone calls to her secretary at the store and to her housekeeper, anxious to reassure herself that all was well in Yorkshire during her absence. Relieved that everything was still under control since yesterday’s calls, she then spoke to Frank at the Chronicle.

‘Good Lord! No wonder it’s snowing!’ Frank exclaimed on hearing her voice. ‘So he’s let you out of his clutches long enough for you to ring me.’ He laughed. ‘I’m only joking. I’m happy for you, Emma.’

‘Oh, Frank, I’m happy, too. So very happy I can’t believe it. And you’re wrong for once. I’m the one who’s let Paul out of my clutches for an hour.’

‘Mmmmm! I see! Well, I must say, he’s apparently very good for you. I’ve never heard you sound better. But why didn’t you tell me who he actually is?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That he is the only son, the only child, of the Bruce McGill. A millionaire and one of the most powerful men in Australia. I suppose you know Paul stands to inherit a fortune. A vast sheep ranch. Mineral rights and mining. Coal fields, and God knows what else.’

‘He’s mentioned the family’s various business interests, of course. But how do you know so much all of a sudden?’

‘I was with Dolly Mosten the other day and she was telling me a few things about Paul—’

‘What else did she tell you?’ Emma asked suspiciously, her heart sinking.

‘Nothing. That was all. She simply remarked that the McGill family was extremely rich and powerful. What’s wrong? You sound edgy.’

‘No, I don’t.’ She laughed. ‘How are you, Frank? Are you all right, dear?’ she inquired, quickly changing the subject.

‘Yes, everything is fine. But I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time, Emma. I can’t really talk right now. I have to go into an editorial conference. Can you call me tomorrow so we can chat longer, love?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Take care now. Give my best to Paul. Bye.’

‘Goodbye, Frank.’

Emma put the telephone down and stared at it, her face brooding, her thoughts weaving a tortuous web in her head as she contemplated the McGill family, or, more precisely, the mysterious Mrs Paul McGill. The wife he had never referred to again and about whom she had not dared to question him; had not wanted to know about. But now Emma was unexpecpectedly eaten up with curiosity. What did she look like? Was she beautiful? How old was she? Why had the marriage gone awry? Did they have children? Was that the reason Paul had never divorced, in spite of his long separation? Emma closed her eyes, crushing the questions flaring in her mind. She would not open Pandora’s box. He would tell her everything eventually, she was certain of that, and she did not want anything to mar the time they had left together. This very precious time.

She looked at the clock on the mantelshelf and to her surprise she realized Paul had been absent for over two hours. It was already five-thirty. For no logical reason she was seized by panic. This feeling was irrational, but none the less, her nervousness increased, and she had the sudden premonition that Paul would be leaving her imminently. He had carefully refrained from mentioning the date of his departure, but she was aware that two weeks had flown by. In Yorkshire he had told her time was running out. Has it now done so? she asked herself, dismay trickling through her.

To still her disquieting thoughts, Emma hurried into the bathroom and preoccupied herself with her toilet. She took a hot bath, towelled herself dry, sprayed her body with perfume, and went into the bedroom. She put on a long powder-blue panne velvet housecoat she had designed herself and which Paul admired on her. It was in the French Empire style with a high waist, tight bodice, long sleeves, and frogging from the low square neckline to the hem, and it gave her the air of an ingénue. She brushed her long hair and left it hanging loose the way he preferred it, and after she had added a little lip rouge and the emerald earrings she drifted through into the sitting room to wait. By seven o’clock agitation swamped her, and the panic began to disintegrate into real fear. Where was he? Had he had an accident? She clenched her hands in her lap, every muscle tense. And then instinctively she knew. Paul was at the War Office receiving his orders. He was leaving. She was positive this was so. The war! Forgotten for days whilst they had lived blindly in their ecstasy. He might be killed…he might never come back…She pressed her hands to her aching eyes.

‘Here I am, my sweet,’ he said, coming through the door that linked his suite to hers.

Emma dropped her hands, jumped up, and ran to him, her face taut. ‘I thought something had happened to you!’ she gasped, grabbing the lapels of his trench coat.

‘Nothing is going to happen to me,’ he reassured her. ‘I have a guardian angel. And anyway, my time’s not up yet. There are all those years earmarked for me. Years to be spent with you. You haven’t forgotten that you are my destiny, have you? It hasn’t been fulfilled, yet, my love.’

Her heart began to beat more normally. She looked up at him, smiled, and pulled away. ‘Your coat is wet through,’ she said. ‘You’d better take your clothes off before you catch your death.’

His eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter. ‘That’s the best proposition I’ve had in the last four hours, madame.’ He winked suggestively.

‘Oh, you know what I mean, you wretch!’

‘I hope I do,’ he said. ‘Give me ten minutes. I’ve already ordered dinner for nine o’clock, and there’s a bottle of champagne cooling in my suite. Excuse me, angel, I’ll be right back,’ he called over his shoulder.

When Paul returned he had changed into civilian clothes. He wore a white silk shirt, a pair of black worsted trousers, and a silk smoking jacket striped in burgundy and black. He looked casually elegant as he carried the champagne bucket to the console. ‘I think it’s cold enough,’ he said, opening the bottle of Dom Pérignon.

Once more Emma watched him alertly. Just as his eyes normally followed her every movement, now hers were concentrated on him, and she saw him afresh. When he had been gone for a period of time, however brief, she was always startled by the impact his looks had on her when he reappeared. It was no one thing in particular but the sum total of the man. And she was inevitably struck by his commanding manner, the panache with which he did everything.

He caught her staring at him and pursed his lips, grinning with fond amusement. He strode over and handed her the glass of champane. ‘I ‘aint bin wiv anover leidy, I swear I ’ain’t,’ he said, adopting a Cockney accent.

‘I ’opes yer ‘ain’t,’ she said, responding in kind. But her eyes were serious, searching his face, and she was afraid to ask where he had been. ‘You were gone so long, darling,’ she murmured softly.

‘I had to see my father about a few things. Business matters to discuss,’ Paul said, clinking her glass. ‘Here’s to you, my lovely Emma.’

‘To us.’

Paul leaned back in the chair. ‘I’m afraid I’ve neglected the old man these last few weeks—’

‘It’s all my fault!’

‘No, it’s not. It’s nobody’s fault,’ he countered swiftly, and flashed her his boyish grin. ‘He has an understanding heart—when it comes to matters of the heart.’

‘Nevertheless, I’ve deprived him of your company at a crucial time, and kept you away from all of your other friends.’

‘Ah, but you must think only of the happiness you have given me and not be concerned with them. I’m not. It was my choice. I do believe I made the rules, didn’t I? Anyway, we could have seen people if I had considered it important. I didn’t. There wasn’t a soul in the world I wanted to be with but you. Others would have profaned our private world. This special world we have created for ourselves, here in our little cocoon. I didn’t want anything to intrude, to shatter the illusion.’

‘You make it sound as if what we have exists only here!’

He stared at her and an eyebrow went up in a quirk. ‘No, I don’t! Good God, Emma, surely you know this is real wherever we are, and wherever we might be in the future. This is no illusion. This is reality. I’ve told you that before.’

Her heart lifted. ‘I’m glad it’s not an illusory world we have been living in. I would hate to wake up and discover it has all been a dream—’

Paul saw the smile slip, the cloud cross her face. Acutely in tune with her moods, he leaned forward and touched her knee and asked, ‘What is it, Em? Is something troubling you, darling?’

‘You were at the War Office. And then you went to see your father, to say goodbye, didn’t you? You’re going, aren’t you, Paul? And very soon.’

‘Yes,’ he admitted quietly.

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Oh, my God!’

He crossed to the sofa and took the glass of champagne from her shaking hand and placed it on the table. He drew her close to him, looking into her anxious face. ‘I read something at Oxford years ago, about lovers who were about to be separated. It has always stayed in my mind. It went something like this: “This parting cannot be for long; for those who love as we do cannot be parted. We shall always be united in thought, and thought is a great magnet. I have often spoken to thee of reason, now I speak to thee of faith.” ‘ He saw that her eyes, so steadfastly fixed on his, were filled with tears. He tenderly brushed them away from her long lashes with his fingertips. ‘Don’t, my darling. Please don’t.’

‘I’m sorry, Paul. It was those words. They moved me so. Who said them?’ she asked tremulously.

‘Abélard to Héloïse. They were uttered centuries ago, but they are as true now as they ever were then. Don’t forget them, my Emma, and please have faith. And believe that we will always be united in thought and therefore as one. And know, too, that I will carry you in my heart for the rest of my life.’

‘Oh, Paul! I love you so much! I cannot bear to be without you!’

His clenched fist came up under her chin, moving against it lightly. ‘Come along, sweetheart. You must be brave. And we’re not going to talk about my leaving any more. We are going to think only of now. There is only now. At least until this mess is over.’ The roguish smile crossed his wide mouth and his eyes swept over her in the old appraising way. ‘And we do have hours of pleasure ahead of us yet. The whole night, in fact,’ he said. He leered at her theatrically, endeavouring to distract her, wanting to make her laugh. ‘And my dear, I must honestly confess that one might with you is worth—’

‘Why, you wicked letch! You—you—reprobate,’ she exclaimed, smiling lovingly through her tears.

‘A fairly accurate description of me, I would say, especially when it comes to you.’ He took her in his arms and moved his lips along the soft curve of her cheek and down the line of her neck. He began to speak in a low voice, using expressions of such love and intimacy the blush rose to her cheeks. She clutched at him, her fingers biting into his arm. Her heart raced as he pushed her back on the sofa, pressed his body against hers, and began to unfasten the buttons on her robe. His eyes were so brilliant she was blinded. She closed her eyes as he brought his lips to hers.