BOOK 3

The problem, he acknowledged grimly as put his head round the kitchen door, was that if he didn't take her into it again soon, he was likely to go out of his mind—or at the very least give her a chance to make a fool of him again. And he was damned if he meant to do that. One kick at the can was all his lovely wife was going to get.

He told Mrs O'Brien about the milk, apologized gruffly for his lateness, and went into the dining room to eat. Alone.

He'd had all he could take of Isabella Sanchez Ryder for one day.

It was surprisingly warm for February, and Isabella was sitting on a bench by the fishpond when Brand came home from work the following day. Connie, quite recovered from her nightmare, was in the kitchen entertaining Mrs O'Brien.

'You're early,' said Isabella, putting a surreptitious hand to her breast to conceal the sudden pounding of her heart. Her husband's formidable figure was advancing down the flagstoned path in an intimidatingly purposeful way. 'It's only four o'clock