"Julia, I suppose. Certainly poor old Adrian. I knew it would happen, that she'd dump him. Should've warned him, given him the benefit. He wouldn't have listened."

Eleanor ignored his ramblings. Knowing the sense of excitement derived from solving human intricacies. Finally appreciating how Greg could become so wrapped up in his cases. There was a certain addictive quality to unravelling the carefully crafted deceits of other people, it was a form of conquest, outsmarting them. "Then you'll just have to ask Julia. But not today, I think."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Wilholm's lawn sprinklers were working at full strength, their long white plumes adding a faint coppery tang to the dry pollen-clogged air. Julia ran down the garden path, giggling wildly, trying to dodge the spray shooting out of the rotating nozzles. The cotton of her emerald-green dress was already damp. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Adrian had almost caught up. A shriek, a last triumphant burst of speed from her legs, and she reached the gravel drive ahead of him.

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Adrian yelled behind her, cursing, and she turned, cracking up at the sight of him caught full square in one of the foamy jets. He slopped on to the gravel trailing dark footprints.

"I'm bloody drenched," he wailed, laughing with her.

He was too; T-shirt and tennis shorts clinging to his skin. She draped her arms round his neck, kissing him exuberantly. "My very own Mr. Wet T-shirt." The giggles set in again, unstoppable.

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His hands found her rump, squeezing with interest. "Do we have enough time before he gets here?" His breath was hot in her ear. He'd begun to nuzzle her neck, aiming for that place he'd found which was exceptionally ticklish.

She let out a heartfelt sigh, squirming in his arms as his tongue licked below her ear. "Not this morning. Busy."

"Afternoon?"

She nodded eagerly. Adrian was insatiable. Wonderfully, fabulously insatiable.

Alaka had been disappointed by the non-appearance of their star guest at most of the functions after Friday night. But she didn't give a flying fig about that. This was love.

And Adrian felt the same about her, so enraptured he'd come back to Wilholm with her on Sunday night.

"I'm afraid to let you out of my sight," he'd said. "I can hardly believe a girl like you would even look at someone like me."

So she did her best to convince him, realising his every wicked fantasy on her big apricot silk bed, and in the Jacuzzi, the shower, dresser chair, deep-pile rug. And Adrian could be very wicked indeed.