on’t move!’ Dusty exclaimed without looking up, his eyes focused on the canvas propped on the easel. ‘It’ll just be another few minutes, and then you can have a stretch. Perhaps a few seconds even.’

‘It’s all right, I’m not going to move a muscle,’ India answered. ‘In fact, I’m fine, really I am.’

‘Good girl, good girl!’ He still didn’t look at her, concentrated on the painting, and then quite suddenly he exclaimed, ‘There, that’s it! I’ve got it! Just those last few strokes were what I needed. Okay, sweetheart, you can stand up and stretch those lovely limbs of yours. I know you must be bloody cramped by now.’

Dusty put down his brush and wiped his hands on a paint rag, then dropped it on the work table and stepped around the easel. He walked over to the chaise where India reclined and taking hold of her hands he brought her to her feet. ‘You’re a marvellous model,’ he murmured, pulling her into his arms. ‘Absolutely bloody marvellous. You didn’t even flick an eyelash.’

‘I tried very hard to keep perfectly still,’ she said, laughing, looking up into his face.

‘Oh God, are you luscious today,’ he murmured, bending towards her, finding her mouth with his own. His lips lingered on hers; she wrapped her arms around him, found herself leaning into his body, longing for him again even though they had only just made love two hours ago. He devoured her mouth, slid his hands down her back and onto her buttocks and pressed her even closer.

He brought one hand to her breast, played with her nipple, visible under the filmy black chiffon top she was wearing. Carefully, he lifted the top, bent over her breast, kissed her nipple, and then stopped abruptly, stared up at her and said, ‘Let’s go back to bed. I can’t stand fooling around like this when I want you so badly.’

‘Yes,’ was all she said, and then she smiled at him and whispered, ‘but the painting will never be finished at this rate, Mr Rhodes.’

Holding her away from him, he looked down into her large, shining eyes and murmured, ‘Only too true, Lady India, only too true. But this lad wants to–’

She stopped his words with her mouth, kissing him deeply, and then pulling away she said softly, ‘I’ll be here for the rest of the day. And tonight. I can stay as long as you want me to stay, Mr Rhodes.’ Her smile was inviting, her eyes provocative.

He smiled back at her, enjoying the way she was flirting with him.

‘It’s the weekend, and I’m free as a bird. I can be here with you. And whatever you want to do with me you can–paint me, feed me, talk to me, and love me, love me, love me,’ she finished, her voice teasing. ‘Yes, please, to the latter.’

‘You’ve got that exactly right, my lady.’ Dusty hugged her to him and added, ‘You’re the best, India, just the best. I can’t begin to tell you what it’s like making love to you…it’s the nearest thing to ecstasy I’ve ever experienced.’ When she remained silent he said in a low voice, ‘I mean that, you know.’

‘Yes,’ was all she could manage, feeling weak at the knees. His words filled her with happiness, thrilled her. She wanted him to love her in the way she loved him, with all his heart and soul and mind.

Dusty released her, and looked down into those silvery eyes. ‘All right, a bit more work and then we’ll have a lovely break. Later I’ll paint you for another hour or two and then I’ll make you dinner. I’m glad you’re not planning to abandon me, it’s great we’ve got the whole weekend together.’

‘I’m glad too,’ she agreed and raising her arms, reaching for the ceiling, she stretched her long lithe body. She was a little cramped after reclining in one position without moving for almost two hours, yet the time had passed quickly. She enjoyed being with him in the studio, watching him as he painted. She was so much in love with him she couldn’t see straight; he was the only man she had ever cared about in this way and the only man she wanted forever, and that was the truth.

Dusty began to move around himself, stretching, breathing deeply, bending, touching his toes, and saying, between movements, ‘Thank God for the air conditioning. If I hadn’t put it in just think how stifling it would have been on a day like this with all these windows. Are you all right, India? How about a glass of water?’

‘Thanks, but I’m fine. This black chiffon blouse is as light as air, and so are the harem trousers.’ She laughed and looked down at them, making a little grimace. ‘All I need are bells on my ankles, bells on my toes and a tambourine and I’d be quite exotic’

‘Don’t knock it. You look very sexy in that outfit, and those trousers! Wow! They don’t leave much to the imagination.’ He rolled his eyes theatrically.

‘Oh Dusty, you’re priceless,’ she said and ran over to him, threw her arms around him. ‘I do adore you so–’

The door of the studio flew open with such force and a rattling noise so loud it startled them, and they swung their heads, gaped at the young woman who had suddenly appeared on the threshold. They were horror-struck. The woman looked demented, her face twisted in rage, her eyes blazing, her hair horribly tousled; even her clothes seemed all awry on her body, in disarray.

‘Get away from him, you bloody whore!’ she shrieked at India, her voice high and shrill. ‘Get away from him. He belongs to me.’

The woman came into the studio at a run, her eyes swivelling around, taking in everything–Dusty’s paint-stained t-shirt, India’s flimsy costume, the rumpled bed at the far end of the room. Finally she spotted the canvas on the easel, the beginning of a life-size portrait of India.

Rushing across to Dusty’s work table she grabbed the first knife she saw, a jackknife he used for cutting canvas, and made a run at the painting, the knife raised and pointed at the portrait. ‘Whore! Whore!’ she screamed.

Dusty had been frozen to the spot in shock, unable to move for the last couple of seconds, but now he went into action, suddenly realizing that she was about to rip his work to shreds. Pushing India to one side, he dashed over to the easel, stood in front of the painting to protect it, and took the thrust of the knife, which had been intended for the canvas, in his left upper chest. Instantly blood spurted, and then gushed, staining the white t-shirt, staining it vivid red.

India cried out in dismay and fear.

The woman, who had the knife raised to strike again, began to scream when she saw the blood on the front of his t-shirt. Instantly dropping the knife, she swung around and flew out of the studio, banging the door behind her.

Dusty stepped over to the work table, grabbed the paint rags and pressed them to his upper chest, steadied himself against the table, cursing under his breath.

At once, India raced over to him, her face pale, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Oh God, Dusty, this looks really serious!’ she cried and ran to the bathroom, came rushing back with a pile of small hand towels. ‘It’s bad,’ she said, taking the paint rags out of his bloody hand, pressing two of the clean towels against his chest, then placing his hand over them. ‘Keep the pressure on,’ she instructed. ‘We must staunch the bleeding the best way we can.’

‘I think she’s severed the artery,’ he said in a strangled voice, and suddenly his face crumpled; he stiffened, biting his lip. ‘Jesus! That’s a bloody blinding pain!’ he gasped, and sat down heavily in the nearest chair. Quite aside from the excruciating pain he felt suddenly and unexpectedly weak in the legs.

‘Get dressed, India. Be quick. I need to get to Harrogate hospital. I need surgery, I’m sure. Please hurry, I’m losing a lot of blood. I could bleed to death with a severed artery, and I’ll certainly go into shock very soon.’

‘Give me a minute,’ India exclaimed, aware of the pain in his bright blue eyes, the agony twisting his mouth into a grimace. She threw off the black chiffon outfit, scrambled into her cotton trousers and t-shirt, grabbed her handbag and rushed back to him.

Taking hold of his right arm, she helped him to stand. ‘Come on, let’s go. I’ll grab some more towels as we leave. Where did you put the door keys? I must lock up.’

‘Table. Near the door,’ he gasped.

He sounded so terrible India tightened her grip on his arm, and glanced up at him. He was chalk-white now and beads of sweat stood out on his face.

‘Don’t pass out on me, darling,’ she said in a strong voice. ‘I’ve got to get you to the car and then to Emergency.’

‘I’ll just about make it…I hope,’ he groaned.

Brilliant sunlight blinded India as she and Dusty came out of the studio, and she was glad she had parked close by, just behind this building, instead of near the barns. Helping him along as best she could, she soon had Dusty seated in the Aston Martin, the seat belt across his chest and buckled. Groping in her bag, she pulled out two more hand towels she had grabbed from the bathroom as they had left, put them under the seat belt and on top of the other towels already there.

Once she had finished she looked at him, noted the pain glazing his eyes, the intense pallor of his face. Now he was ashen, still perspiring profusely, and she knew she had very little time to get him to Emergency before he went into shock. And the loss of blood was frightening. After closing the door she ran around to the other side of the car and got in, put the key in the ignition.

‘The studio door,’ he mumbled, partially turning his head to look at her. ‘Lock it.’

‘It’s double-locked, Dusty, don’t worry,’ she reassured him, turned the key and started the car, then backed up the dirt road and headed around the house to the main driveway. At one moment she said, ‘The seat belt’s holding the towels in place, darling,’ but he didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes were closed, and his right hand was still pressed down on the towels covering the wound.

Slowing the car as she came to the main gates of Willows Hall, she took out her cell phone and punched in Linnet’s number. It was answered after only a few rings. ‘Hello?’

‘Linnet, it’s India. Don’t talk, just listen please. I’ve got a very serious problem. Dusty’s been stabbed. Badly. An artery’s been severed, I think. He’s losing lots of blood. I’m just leaving Willows Hall. I should make it to Harrogate District Hospital in about twelve minutes, unless there’s more traffic than usual. Call Emergency would you please, Linny? Tell them I’m coming. That way they’ll be ready for us.’

‘God, how terrible! I’ll call immediately. Then I’m heading there myself. I should make it in five minutes if I leave now. I’m at Uncle Ronnie’s house.’

‘Thanks, Linnet.’ India clicked off, and glanced at Dusty. His eyes were closed and he seemed to have slumped down in the seat, looked out of it. And blood was seeping through the towels onto his hand and trickling down his arm.

As she started up the car again, India noticed that her hand trembled and she had to take several deep breaths to steady herself. Now was not the time to panic. Or lose her nerve. She knew he was about to go into shock, if he hadn’t already, and speed was of the utmost importance. Gripping the wheel, she edged out onto the road which led into Harrogate, was filled with relief when she saw that it was empty, except for a lorry and a cyclist. She put her foot down on the accelerator and concentrated on driving, exceeding the speed limit.

She made it to the hospital in exactly nine minutes, and as she slowed down at the hospital gates she could see several people clustered at the Emergency Entrance door; three nurses and a couple of doctors, she thought, all standing next to a stretcher. Linnet was with them, looking pale and extremely anxious.

Slowing to a standstill, India braked and alighted, motioned to the doctors, then ran around to the passenger door. Before she had even opened it they were rushing towards her with the stretcher, and Linnet was not far behind.

India stood to one side, allowed the professionals to take over, to lift Dusty out of the car, but she said to one of the doctors, ‘My friend thought the knife struck his artery, maybe even severed it.’

He stared at her, frowned. ‘Is he a doctor?’

She shook her head. ‘No, he’s an artist. But he studied anatomy in art classes.’

‘I see.’ He nodded and added, ‘He’s probably correct. Right now he’s in shock and there’s obviously enormous blood loss. Try not to worry,’ and with that he ran after the stretcher which was already being trundled at top speed into Emergency by the hospital staff.

Linnet came over to her, took hold of her arm, and said, ‘Let’s go inside and sit down. I gave them as much information as I could, but they’ll want to talk to you, India, I’ve no doubt.’

She nodded. ‘I know. I suppose they’ve already called the police.’

‘It’s routine, isn’t it, with something like this?’ Linnet murmured, eyeing her closely.

‘I expect so.’ India suddenly began to shake uncontrollably and brought her hands up to her face. ‘It was so awful. Terrifying, Linny.’

After opening the Emergency Entrance door, and leading her over to a chair, Linnet sat down next to her cousin, and asked in a low voice, ‘What the hell happened? Who stabbed Dusty?’

‘A woman. I don’t know who she was, so don’t ask, and I certainly wasn’t able to question Dusty, under the circumstances. Perhaps he knew her, I’m not certain. She burst into the studio and just went berserk when she saw me.’

India now told Linnet everything that had happened less than an hour ago, not pausing for breath until she had finished, and then she let out a long shuddering sigh. ‘Oh God, Linnet, I hope he’s going to be all right. What if he dies? God, I couldn’t bear it if anything happens to him.’ India took hold of Linnet’s arm, stared at her intently and burst into tears.

At once Linnet put her arm around India and brought her close, soothing her softly. ‘Dusty will make it, darling. He’s young, strong, and they can work miracles today. Modern medicine’s quite incredible.’

‘But he’s lost so much blood. It just…spurted out of him. It was frightening to see–’ She broke off, and her face underwent a sudden change. Then she exclaimed, ‘I could give him blood, if he needs a transfusion. Would you do it, too, Linnet, if it were necessary?’

Momentarily startled by this request though she was, Linnet said, after the merest pause, ‘Yes, of course, if he needs it.’

India now sat up a little straighter, and her face seemed to lose some of its tension. Giving Linnet a half smile she murmured in a very low voice, ‘I love him very much, you know. I’ve never felt like this about any other man. He’s the only one I’ve ever wanted to marry.’

This announcement did not startle Linnet; she had known, right from the outset of India’s involvement with Dusty Rhodes, that she had fallen heavy and hard for the artist, and Linnet was pleased for her. Her only worry had been his well-known reputation as a bit of a carousing and volatile rabble-rouser, but India had assured her this was all a big put-on by Dusty. On the other hand, hysterical women wielding knives was another thing altogether, and smacked of an unsuitable, and perhaps even an unsavoury background. And this thought troubled her. Other women who had been rejected could cause untold problems.

Linnet looked up as a voice said in careful tones, ‘Lady India, could you come and give us some details about Mr Rhodes, please.’

India rose at once, and said, ‘Certainly,’ and followed a woman in a white coat holding a clipboard and a pen. A moment later two police officers walked into Emergency, and Linnet groaned inside. There was no question in her mind that they had come to talk to her cousin about Dusty’s stabbing. Of course they had. And if Dusty died then it would be murder they were talking about.

The woman in the short white jacket holding the clipboard turned out to be Mrs Anita Giles from Administration, and after introducing herself to India she led the way to her office off the Emergency Entrance lobby.

Once they were seated, Mrs Giles explained, ‘Now, Lady India, if you could fill in the gaps for me I’d be very appreciative. Your cousin Miss O’Neill just gave me the name Russell Rhodes and said he’d been stabbed. I’m making the assumption that Mr Rhodes is the well-known artist. Am I correct?’

‘Yes, you are, Mrs Giles. His full name is Russell Cecil Rhodes, and he lives at Willows Hall in Follifoot. He’s forty-two years old. Is that the kind of thing you want to know?’

Mrs Giles nodded, continued to write on the form attached to her clipboard; once she had jotted down these salient facts, she asked, ‘Does Mr Rhodes have any medical problems that you know of?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so. He’s very fit as far as I know. He exercises, watches his diet, drinks very little.’ India smiled when she saw Mrs Giles raise her brow, and added, ‘His reputation for being something of a roué is quite false, I can assure you of that. Somewhat self-engendered, if you know what I mean, and wildly exaggerated.’ Leaning forward, India asked, ‘He is going to be all right, isn’t he? I mean, he said he thought an artery had been severed.’

The woman’s face was quite unreadable when she said, ‘Everyone at the hospital will do their very best for him, Lady India, and I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t even hazard a guess under the circumstances. Now, could you tell me exactly what–’

At this moment there was a knock on the door, and Anita Giles stopped in the middle of her sentence and said, ‘Come in.’

The door opened to admit two policemen. ‘Hello, Mrs Giles,’ one of them said; the other simply nodded, smiled across at her.

‘Good afternoon, officers. This is Lady India Standish, a friend of Mr Russell Rhodes, who is the victim of the stabbing reported earlier. Lady India brought him to the hospital.’

India immediately stood up, went and shook hands with the two policemen, who introduced themselves as Constables Hobbs and Charlton.

‘If you’d be so good as to leave us alone with Lady India,’ the one called Hobbs said, staring hard at Anita Giles, nodding at the door.

‘Oh yes, of course. I do realize you wish to speak to her ladyship alone.’ Smiling at India, she hurried out of the small office, softly closing the door behind her.

India said, ‘There’s not much I can tell you, Constable Hobbs.’

‘Just give us the details, Lady India,’ Constable Charlton suggested, and gestured for India to sit down.

‘Thanks, but I’ll stand,’ she answered, and told them, ‘Mr Rhodes is a well-known artist, as I’m sure you know, who lives at Willows Hall in Follifoot. He has his studio there, and he’s painting my portrait…for my father, the Earl of Dunvale. A short while–’

‘You’re related to the late Mrs Emma Harte!’ Hobbs exclaimed, eyeing her with sudden unconcealed interest.

‘Yes, I’m her great-granddaughter. And her other great-granddaughter is Linnet O’Neill, my cousin, who’s waiting outside.’

‘Both my mother and grandmother worked at the Harte store in Harrogate,’ Hobbs explained with a small smile, and then continued, ‘So Mr Rhodes was painting you and suddenly someone came in and stabbed him, is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, it isn’t what I’m saying at all,’ India answered briskly. ‘We had stopped because I’d been sitting for over two hours without moving, and I needed to stretch myself, and Dusty, er, Mr Rhodes, was also a little stiff. He said he wanted to do some stretching before continuing. Anyway, we were doing our exercises and chatting when the door of the studio flew open and this young woman came in. I don’t know who she was, and I’m not certain that Mr Rhodes did either.’

‘And she rushed up and stabbed him, is that it?’ Charlton asked, sounding sceptical.

‘Oh no, she saw me and started shouting at me, calling me names. She was a bit out of control. And then her eyes lighted on the portrait, and she seemed to go berserk, ran forward, grabbed a knife from the work table and made a beeline for the portrait, the knife raised.’

‘And she slashed the painting, before stabbing Mr Rhodes?’ Hobbs asked, his brows drawing together in a frown.

‘No, no, it didn’t happen that way at all! Dusty and I, well, we were both sort of stupefied, yes, that’s the best word. We were utterly stupefied, in fact, and suddenly he obviously realized she was heading for the portrait, and he ran forward, stood in front of it, to protect it, and that’s how he got himself stabbed. The woman meant to damage the painting, not Mr Rhodes. It was an accident.’

‘I see,’ Hobbs murmured thoughtfully and glanced across at his colleague. Hobbs said to India, ‘We hope to speak to Mr Rhodes soon, once he comes out of the operating room.’

India clenched her hands, digging her nails into the palms, her anxiety rising. ‘Have the doctors told you anything, Constable Hobbs? He’s not going to die, is he?’

‘I dunno,’ Hobbs said, shaking his head. ‘I hope not. Dr Palmerton is a wonderful surgeon. If anybody can make Mr Rhodes right, he can. But we’ll just have to wait, won’t we?’