She took Luc to the best restaurant in town. It did not look much on the outside. Housed in one of the frame buildings on the front, it had a ramshackle air, leaning crazily in the wind, creaking like an old boat. Inside it was elegantly furnished and the food was superb. It was island cooking at its best-tinged with that distinct French flavour which centuries of French dominance had given the islanders. The ingredients were alien, but the cooking and serving gave the meal a classic simplicity.

'What's in this sauce?' Luc asked her, looking with pleasure at his plate.

'Local honey, spices, pineapple, vinegar,' she said.

He was eating octopus with rice and baked bananas.

His brows had risen as he read the menu, but she could see that he was enjoying the odd combination and Lissa knew from experience that it was delicious.

She herself was eating chicken sliced very thinly and served wrapped in slices of local molasses-cooked ham.

Their waiter knew her and hovered politely within earshot-she wasn't sure whether he did it out of a desire to be some sort of protection for her, or whether he was merely eager to please. Whenever she looked round she caught the white flash of his teeth as he smiled at her.

Luc saw her smiling back and glanced over his broad shoulder. He crooked a long, brown finger and the waiter sprang forward. 'Sir?'

'If we want you, we'll call you,' Luc said very softly, meeting his eyes.

The waiter bowed and silently vanished.

'They all know you, don't they?' Luc asked, and Lissa nodded, smiling faintly. 'How old were you when you first came here?'

She told him and he listened with interest. 'So you were born in England?'

She nodded, and he pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair, his thumbs in the pockets of the waistcoat of his light blue suit. It was one of the things about him that betrayed his money-the cut of the suit had London stamped all over it. The design was modern without being aggressively in fashion and the tailoring was first class. He wasn't wearing a tie and the collar of his shirt was casually opened.

'Have you ever wanted to go back to England?' he asked, studying her coolly.

Lissa shook her head. 'Not to live-for a visit, perhaps. I think I'd find it a bit cold.'

He lowered his thick lashes. 'Not necessarily,' he answered, and she saw the edge of his mouth curl upwards in a secret little smile.

Glancing up again, he asked: 'So you've known Brandon most of your life?'

Lissa nodded. She felt his eyes probing into hers, the razor-sharp edge of his face tilted as he leaned back.

'What gave you the idea you could sing?' he asked, and she didn't like the way he phrased that, flushing.

'Chris thought…'

'Ah,' he said. 'It was his idea, was it?'

'I know I'm not the greatest singer in the world!' she flared in defensive annoyance.

'You're not even in the third league,' he drawled.

Her colour deepened. 'Thank you.'

He grinned at her stiff voice and angry face. 'But you're worth listening to,' he soothed. 'That little girl voice is rather fetching. You're such a contrast to the sort of singers you usually find in places like that.' He watched her push her own plate away, only half-touched, and asked: 'Would you like a dessert?'

She shook her head, her eyes down. Although she knew she wasn't a very exciting singer she did not much like being frankly informed of it.

'Coffee?' He didn't wait for her to answer that, but clicked his fingers. The waiter appeared and Luc ordered coffee. When their plates had been removed he asked if she would mind if he smoked and, when she shook her head, he lit a cigar.

'The song you sang the other night,' he began, studying the end of his cigar thoughtfully. 'Whose idea was that?'

' Pierre 's,' she said. 'He runs the band. He arranged the song and did the modern words.'

The dark blue eyes shot to her face. 'You weren't happy singing it, were you? You got through it okay, but you looked like someone who was in acute discomfort.'

Lissa did not answer that. The waiter arrived with their coffee and left the tall pot of coffee on the table when he vanished again to get the brandy Luc had demanded for himself.

Lissa watched the pale spirals of cream sink into her coffee. Luc watched her, but he wasn't saying anything. The brandy arrived and when the waiter had gone again Luc picked up his glass and sipped the drink in silence for a moment.

'Girls of your type have gone out of style in England,' he told her as he put his glass down on the table.

Lissa ventured a look at him and flushed at the wicked amusement in his eyes.

'What do you mean, girls of my type?' she asked crossly. 'What type am I?'

'I haven't got long enough to tell you,' he said softly, and her colour flared.

She picked up her coffee and drank it to cover her disturbed sense of threat. The way the blue eyes caressed and teased made her want to get up and bolt like a frightened rabbit.

She was very relieved when they had finished their coffee and could leave. It would be less intimate and more bearable for her when they were viewing the old fort, she decided, but when they strolled down the road and went in through the open gate they found the place empty. The young man selling tickets waved them through cheerfully. 'You know the way round, Liss,' he beamed.

The walls were broken in places, the jagged masonry worn by wind and sea mists, the ground littered with tumbled stone. Lissa showed Luc the guardrooms with their deepset chimneys, the cells beneath the fort which had once held chained prisoners, the narrow winding corridors running darkly off the steep flights of stairs. A colony of bats lived in the ruined tower at one end of the fort. Luc insisted on climbing the stairs to stare down over the town from the wide parapet. Long ago French soldiers had stood here, watching for trouble either from land or sea, but the fort had not been in use for many years.

The wind blew faintly today. In summer the town sweltered in the heat. It was only when the occasional hurricane roared over the ocean that the fort crumbled even further.

Going down the stairs with Luc in front of her in case she fell, Lissa skidded on a sharply polished stone. She tried to grab the wall, but it gave her hand no purchase. Instead she found, herself grasping Luc's shoulders while he held her by the waist, half turned towards her in a reflex movement as he heard her cry of alarm.

'Sorry,' she whispered, drawing back as she recovered her balance.

He still held her waist, his hands almost meeting around it, and as she looked into his eyes a strange, drowning excitement engulfed her. Her mind blanked out. When Luc lifted her down to the same step as himself she felt she was floating, light as air, dreamlike and somehow free of anything resembling volition.

Luc's head bent and he brushed his lips over hers. It was the lightest of caresses and it affected her like the touch of fire. She jerked back involuntarily. The cold stone of the wall, the rough edge of flint, dug into her back. She stared into his intent blue eyes and her mouth shook-

He placed both hands on the wall, leaning over her, and his mouth came down again, but now the coolness had gone, along with the gentleness. His lips were hard and hot, forcing hers to open, the pressure of them filled with a demand she helplessly obeyed. His hands suddenly gripped her wrists and raised her arms; placing them round his neck. She woke briefly then, wrenching her head away, pushing at his shoulders with flattened hands.

His palm against her check pushed her head round and before she could cry out in protest his mouth had her own captive again. Lissa tensed for a few seconds, twisting to escape. Luc shifted and she felt the whole weight of his body crushing her against the wall. She couldn't stop the moan which escaped her under his demanding mouth. Her hands slid along his shoulders and grasped his thick black hair, running through it in a trembling movement.