He's not such a conventional dreamboat, Amy thought, but he's good to look at and much, much stronger.Especially now, when Robert was giving that phoney laugh at the mention of the police. Remembering how contemptuously he had always spoken of her drama lessons, Amy reflected as so often how much he could have learnt from just one of them. He really was a lousy actor.Tolice? I don't think so,' he said. 'Anyway, who the hell are you?'He strode into the circle of chairs round the fireplace, turned his back on the empty grate, and belligerently straddled the hearthrug facing the couch. With his hands half-clenched at his side he loomed over the seated Paul as if he might any minute pull him up and knock him down.'What makes you think,' he demanded, 'that you can come into my house and threaten my . . . my wife like this?''I'm one of the Clarks,' Paul responded, coolly stating his interest.Robert's mouth set in a mulish line. 'I don't know what you're talking about.''Oh, come on .

Suddenly she realized he was asking her a question. So he hadn't lost interest after all. He was asking where they went from here, which showed he thought they were going somewhere. I've got to get this right, she told herself desperately, and did her best to brush away the cobwebs of fatigue.'I . . . suppose I was sort of wondering that myself.''I could just take you to Stribble . . .''To Stribble?''It's where you live,' he reminded her with gentle sarcasm.'Yes.'Her new hope collapsed like a burst balloon. She had been wrong. He didn't want to talk about their future together, just about the simple, practical matter of where he should drive next. He wanted to know where he should take her before he put her down and left her, presumably forever.'That's right, please take me to Stribble,' she said, trying and failing to keep the leaden flatness from her voice. 'Thanks to you, I don't think I've anything more to fear from the Dawlishes.''Not from them, no.' He made no move to st

But then, she hadn't so much stayed as simply spent two nights in Paul's austere little spare room. She had left at eight each morning and returned at ten each night too tired to do more than drag herself to bed; so tired that tiredness seemed a way of life; so tired that events and ideas and imaginings ran together in her brain and would not be separated into their individual parts.If she worked at it she could dredge up a vague memory of her first arrival here. Paul had helped herout of his van and guided her across the narrow street, and the outside air must have brought her round a bit. She could remember the wet pavement, and the shuttered shopfront, and the question she had asked about the name on the fascia.'Why Gemini? Is it your birth sign?'She was fairly sure he'd said no, he just liked the sound of it, but after that it all went vague again. They must have gone through the side door and up the walled-in stairs to the little landing, but she couldn't remember. He must ha

She didn't feel strong enough to ask the question direct, but she could try a roundabout route. 'What does your mother think of you running an antique shop?''It worries her, of course,' he admitted readily. 'She doesn't say so, but she fears I may take after my father.''And do you?''No.' The single word came out serene and unassertive, a simple statement of fact. 'I take after the Clarks, but not my father.''It must be a bit uncertain though?' she offered cautiously. 'As a way of earning a living?''I don't need to earn a living.' He smiled, with a certain edge of irony. 'My father left me three million dollars.''What?' Amy put down her cup, suddenly weak. 'Real money? In the bank?'Paul nodded. 'He financed movies. It seems that after a while, he got a reputation as somebody who could pick winners.''So in the end, his gambling paid off.' Amy sat back, taking it in. 'That means you're rich.''It certainly means I've got enough.' He regarded her over the gleaming tea things. 'Do

'I see.' Amy nodded, spreading pate. 'So modern carvers try to make their work seem old.''After they've carved them out of bits of packing crates,' he confirmed, 'they stain them and drill worm-holes.''And they succeed? I mean, the things end up seeming old?'Paul nodded, his mouth full. 'Tourists and dealers buy them as antiques,' he explained when he had swallowed, 'take them back to Europe or America, and sell them for a huge profit.''Having bought them for peanuts?''Just about. And for those peanuts, all that marvellous talent -' he nodded down at the figure by Amy's plate - 'gets pinned down copying the past, instead of finding its own way.'Amy stared at him in admiration. What a wonderful way he had found to spend his father's money. Not only was he providing employment in a poor country - she was sure Mali must be poor - he was also helping craftsmen. No, she corrected herself, he was helping artists find the best way of using their talents.'So in Les Gemaux,' she began,