here on earth did those ghastly vermilion roses come from, Ann?" Paula asked, staring through the open door of the drawing room and then turning to look at her grandmother's American housekeeper.

Ann Donovan, standing next to Paula in the large entrance foyer of Emma's Fifth Avenue apartment, shook her head. "I don't know, Miss Paula. I left the card on the console, next to the vase."

She followed Paula into the room, continuing, "I wasn't sure where to put them, to be honest, the bouquet is so huge. I even wondered if I ought to leave them out here. In all the years I've worked for Mrs. Harte we've never had roses in the apartment. Don't you like them either?"

"They don't really bother me, Ann, at least not in the way they disturb my grandmother. I'm just not accustomed to seeing roses around, that's all. I never plant them, or buy them, for that matter." She wrinkled her nose, indicating her distaste, remarked offhandedly, "And that color, it's such a violent red, and the whole arrangement is overwhelming. Very pretentious."

She reached for the envelope, ripped it open, looked at the card. It had been signed by Ross Nelson. His writing was small, neat, cramped almost, and he was inviting her to his country house for the weekend. What cheek he's got, Paula thought. And what makes him think I'd want to spena the weekend with him? I hope he's not going to become a pest. She tore up the card, dropped it into a nearby ashtray, said to the housekeeper, "I really can't stand the roses, Ann, would you mind taking them out to the back, please?"

"No, of course not, Miss Paula." Ann picked up the offending vase and headed out of the drawing room, saying over her shoulder, "You received some other flowers—not very long ago. I popped them in the den."

"Oh. Well, 1 suppose I'd better go and look at them," Paula murmured, walking out after the housekeeper, who was already hurrying across the foyer in the direction of her own rooms.

Paula's face lit up the moment she saw the lovely little basket of African violets in the center of the mahogany coffee table near the fireplace. She bent over them, touched the glossy dark green leaves, then the velvet-textured petals of the deep purple flowers. How delicate, how tender they are, she thought and picked up the envelope. It was blank and she wondered who the violets were from as she opened it. She stiffened in surprise. The name Shane was scrawled across the front of the card in his familiar bold handwriting. There was no message, simply his first name.

Still holding the card, Paula sat dosvn on the nearest chair, frowning to herself, not quite certain what to make of the flowers. For the first time in almost two years he had done something sweet and thoughtful, the kind of thing he used to do in the past. And she was at a loss, not sure how to deal with it. She pondered. Was the basket of violets a signal that he wanted to be friends with her again? Or merely a polite gesture, one made out of a sense of family obligation and duty? Certainly sending her flowers was a way of saying welcome to New York without his actually having to speak to her.

Paula glanced into the fire, her expression abstract. She was positive that Merry would have told him she was in the city. After all, they were brother and sister and business * colleagues, and they chatted back and forth across the Atlantic on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. Perhaps her friend had put pressure on Shane to make an effort, to be nice to her. His aloofness and remoteness still perplexed Paula. How many times had she asked herself what she had done to hurt or upset him, and how many times had the answer, been a negative one. She had done nothing wrong. Yet she continued to hold himself apart, barely acknowledging her existence. And when he did do so, she knew it was because he had no alternative, considering the long and intimate involvement of their two families.

Pulling her eyes away from the fire, Paula stared at the card again and for the longest time. The simple signature without one other word was not very encouraging. In a way it was intimidating. If only he had suggested that she phone him, or hinted that they might get together before she returned to England.

Damn, she muttered under her breath, and suddenly stood up abruptly, unexpectedly filled with anger. Shane O'Neill had been her dearest friend for as long as she could remember, since she could first walk and talk. They had grown up together... shared so much... become so very close over those formative and meaningful years... their lives had been so deeply intertwined... and then he had dropped her, turned away from her, and without any kind of proper explanation. It was not logical.

I've had enough of this. I'm sick and tired of people behaving as if my feelings don't matter, she thought, still bridling with anger. She rushed out of the den to find her briefcase. It was on a bench in the foyer where she had left it when she had walked in from the office. Grabbing it, she sped back to the den and sat down at the desk. Snapping open the locks, she pulled out her address book, turned to Shane's New York numbers, then sat back in the chair, eyeing the phone.

I'm going to have it out with him once and for all, she decided, whether it's tonight, next week, or the very day I leave. I don't care when it is, as long as I pin him down, finally. I want to know why he ended our long friendship so cruelly. I'm entitled to an explanation. She reached for the receiver, then let her hand fall away, realizing it would be prudent to calm herself first. Yes, it would be most unwise to confront him now. She had not seen Shane since April. He had just sent her flowers. Therefore it would appear odd, even irrational, if she tackled him about their relationship out of the blue. Also, she abhorred telephone confrontations, preferred to look people right in the eye when she was thrashing out something of crucial importance, needing to observe their reactions. I ought to have insisted on a frank talk long ago, she added under her breath. I've been spineless. It suddenly occurred to her that she was not so mucn angry with Shane as she was with herself. She should never have permitted the breach to continue as she had. Her annoyance began to dissipate.

Sitting up straighter, she lifted the receiver, then hesitated. How would she begin the conversation? You are befuddled, really jet-lagged tonight, she told herself with a rueful smile. Obviously you'll thank him for the flowers. What else? It's the perfect opening gambit. She dialed his apartment. The phone rang and rang. There was no reply. Disappointed,-she replaced the receiver. Then something his father had said to her on Sunday night flashed through her mind. Uncle Bryan had made a remark about Shane's being as addicted to work as she was these days. Paula looked at her watch. It was a few minutes before seven. Could he still be at the office? Miranda had given her two numbers for O'Neill Hotels International, and one of them was Shane's private line.

Once again she dialed.

The phone was picked up on the second ring. "Hello," a very masculine voice said.

"Shane?"

There was a pause before he answered. "Hello, Paula," he finally said.

"Why, Shane, how clever of you to recognize my voice and at once," she exclaimed with assumed flippancy. "I'm so glad I caught you. I just got back here and found your violets. They're lovely, so springlike, and it was such a dear thought. Thank you."

"I'm glad you like them," he said.

His neutral, unenthusiastic tone was so off-putting it chilled her, but nevertheless she hurried on: "It's been ages since we've seen each other, at least eight months, and now here we both are, far away from Yorkshire, a couple of tykes in New York City. The least we can do is get together—" She stopped, then taking a deep breath said, very rapidly, "—for dinner."

There was an even longer pause at his end of the phone. "I... er.,. well... I'm not sure when I could do that, actually. When were you thinking of, Paula? Which night?"

"Tonight seems as good a time as any," she said determinedly. "If you're not already busy, that is."

"I am a bit, I'm afraid. I'd planned to work late. I have an awful lot of paperwork to catch up with this week."

-• jou ve got to eat sometime," she pointed out in ner mosi persuasive voice. She laughed gaily. "Remember what Grandy was forever saying to Mrs. Bonnyface at Heron's Nest. All work and no play, et cetera. And you never used to argue with that sentiment."

He was silent.

Softly she said, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be pushing you like this. I know what it's like to be overburdened by work. Perhaps another night. I'm going to be here for about three weeks. I'll leave it up to you; call me if you have a free evening. Thanks again for the flowers, Shane. Bye." She hung up immediately, not giving him an opportunity to respond.

Pushing herself out of the chair, Paula walked over to the coffee table, picked up the card and threw it into the fire, watched it burn. He had been cold, unbending, only marginally civil.

Why? Why? Why?

Whatever had she done to Shane O'Neill to make him behave in such an unfriendly and unkind manner? She ran her hand through her hair distractedly, then shrugged as she returned" to the desk. I am a stupid fool, she thought. He's probably heavily involved with Skye Smith and can't be bothered to entertain a childhood friend, especially one he no longer cares about. He might even be living with her. Merry and Winston think their relationship is platonic, but how can they really know? They're always saying he's closemouthed. Funny, though, he never was with me, nor I with him, for that matter. We never had secrets; we told each other everything.

The phone shrilled. She glanced at it, picked it up. Before she said hello he spoke.

"I couldn't make it for at least an hour, maybe a bit longer," Shane said hurriedly, sounding breathless. "I'll have to go back to my flat to change, and it's turned seven already."

"You know you don't have to bother doing that for me, of all people, for heaven's sake," she exclaimed softly, surprised but gratified that he had rung back. "After all, we're family." She laughed under her breath. He was vain about his appearance, but she didn't mind. She rather liked that trait in him. "Anyway," she went on, "you can freshen up here if you want, and, listen, we don't have to go to a fancy restaurant, a simple place will do nicely."

"All right. I'll be there around seven-thirty," he said, see you then." He hung up as swiftly as she had done a few minutes before.

Paula sat back, staring at the phone. She felt curiously light-headed and wondered why.

Shane O'Neill sighed heavily, crushed out the cigarette he had lit before calling Paula.

Reaching for the phone again, he dialed a small French bistro he liked, made a reservation for nine o'clock, and then stood up. Hurriedly rolling down his sleeves, he fastened the buttons on the cuffs, knotted his tie which he had loosened earlier, then walked over to the closet to get his jacket and overcoat.

You're a bloody fool, he chastised himself, allowing her to get to you in the way she did. You threw your resolve not to see her out the window, and all because she sounded so wistful when she said good-bye. And disappointed. And lonely. Desperately lonely. He had lived in that solitary and isolated state far too long not to detect it in her immediately. Besides, he knew and understood Paula much better than anyone else did, and he had always been able to accurately gauge her moods, even when she was putting up a front. Like her grandmother, she was adroit at doing that, and exceptionally deceptive. She could don that inscrutable expression at will, effect a gaiety when she spoke that did nothing to betray her real feelings. Except to him, of course. She had adopted a fraudulent lightness with him a few moments ago, he was well aware. Her laughter and flippancy had been forced. So his sister had been right. Paula was troubled, disturbed. But about what, exactly? Business? Her marriage? Well, he wasn't going to contemplate that relationship.

After slipping into his sports jacket, he pulled his overcoat off the hanger and left the offices, locking the door behind him. Several seconds later, stepping out of the building onto.Park Avenue, he was relieved to see that the traffic had eased. He spotted a cab, hailed it, jumped in and gave the address on Fifth Avenue. Settling back, he fished around in his pocket for cigarettes and his lighter. '

As he smoked, a sardonic smile struck his wide Celtic mouth. You're putting a noose around your neck, O'Neill, he warned himself. But then you knew that when you sent her

me nowers; You expected her to call you when she received them; be honest, you did. You simply lobbed the ball over into

her court. Yes, this was the truth—and yet only partially so.

That afternoon, on his way back to the office from the hotel site, he had noticed the violets as he had passed the flower shop and instantly thought of her eyes. Then, as he had hovered uncertainly outside, gazing through the window, he had been transported back in time, back to the house by the sea, and she had been there in'that dreamlike villa high on the soaring cliffs... dreamlike child of his childhood dreams... the tender young girl with the garden hoe...

He had gone in and bought the violets, knowing how much she would love them, not giving it a second thought, swept along by the tide of his nostalgia. Only later had he questioned his motives.

Oh, what the hell, it's too late now, he thought, impatiently stubbing out his cigarette. I've invited her out. I've got to go through with it. After all, I'm a grown man, I'm well able to handle the situation. Besides, I'm simply taking her to dinner. Surely there is no harm in that.