He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and grinned. ‘A long time, angel, but you still look good to me.’

And she wasn’t afraid, which was strange because she had thought that she would be. She looked up at him and something stirred in her. A memory of her youth, perhaps, when nothing had ever seemed to matter very much except having a good time. And then Ben had come into her life, this handsome, smiling Irish devil who could put the fear of God in any man who ever crossed him, but who was everything a woman could desire.

She pushed herself up and stood there, the water draining from her breasts, steam curling from her rounded limbs. ‘You’d better pass me a towel.’

He was still smiling, the sight of her having no apparent effect. He dropped his cigarette to the floor, pulled a bath towel from the rack and crossed to her. ‘What do you want me to do, angel, dry your back?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said calmly.

He draped the towel around her shoulders, then in one quick movement scooped her up into his arms. She could feel the heart move in her, the hollowness in her stomach as she looked up at him and a sudden indolent warmth seeped through her limbs.

She slid her damp arms around his neck, the towel slipping to her waist, her breasts crushed against him, and as he turned and walked into the bedroom, her mouth found his, her tongue working passionately.

She pulled away and rubbed her cheek against his. ‘Ben, oh Ben,’ she whispered.

‘I know, angel, isn’t love grand?’ He dropped her on the bed and stood back, a grin on his face. ‘By God, you must warm the cockles of poor old Harry Faulkner’s heart.’

She lay there, raised on one elbow, the towel covering less than half of her beautiful body and glared up at him, fire in her eyes.

‘All right then, what do you want?’

‘My money, angel, that’s all. Seven thousand eight hundred and fifty quid. No fortune, but what my old grannie back in County Antrim would have called a respectable portion. Not much to show for nine years in the nick, but it’ll give me a start.’

She lay there staring up at him, a slight fixed frown on her face, and he stopped smiling. ‘You’ve still got it, haven’t you?’

She nodded and sat up, pulling the towel around her shoulders. ‘Not here though.’

He frowned. ‘That’s not so good. I was hoping to be out of town by breakfast. I would have thought that would have suited you, too.’

‘I’ve got a motor cruiser moored at Hagen’s Wharf on the river,’ she said. ‘Harry bought it for my birthday last year. The money’s there. I’ll be glad to see the back of it.’