When nearly a week had gone since Harlan’s boys had thrown her to the caimans, the man came in carrying some clothes, Trix following in high excitement, her tail going into overdrive as Belle reached out a hand to pet her.

‘What’s all this then?’ asked Belle as Trix jumped up onto the bed, did her usual performance of treading around to get comfy, then lay down at Belle’s feet, her face fixed in a grin.

‘Clothes,’ the man said, laying them out on the counterpane. ‘They were my mum’s, might as well get some use out of them. There’s a couple of nightdresses, some dresses and a cardigan. Some underwear. A pair of her old jeans and – yeah, a couple of my shirts. I dunno. Probably none of it will fit.’

Belle thought the shirts definitely wouldn’t. Despite not being particularly tall, he was very broad across the shoulders, like he’d been doing weights.

‘I thought that today if you feel well enough you could get in the shower, wash your hair, put on some clean clothes. It’ll make you feel better.’

Belle stared at his face. He had very fierce eyes, dark blue. His expression could be scary, stone-hard, and the dark beard didn’t help. When she watched him move around the room, she was struck by a lean physicality about him. At first, she’d thought he was older; now she knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t be more than late twenties, early thirties.

Belle was staring at his face.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Jack Tavender.’

‘I’m Belle Barton.’

‘Good God,’ he said, staring at her.

‘What?’ Belle turned her right cheek toward him, uncomfortable at being stared at.

‘You’re the girl in the red BMW. The racer.’

Belle did a double take. The dark beard, the eyes with that unnerving thousand-yard stare. The look of chilly contempt that tractor driver had given to her and Harlan on the day when he had chased her along the lane in his Porsche.

‘The man on the tractor,’ she realized in surprise. ‘It was you.’

‘You and that bloke were racing along the lane like bloody fools.’

‘We weren’t racing,’ said Belle. ‘He was chasing me. He’s always been chasing me.’ She raised a hand, indicating the ruined side of her face. ‘And finally he caught me.’ Her voice broke. She should have known that with Harlan it would either end in her domination or her death. But she’d ignored the danger signals and she’d ended up like this. ‘His name’s Harlan Stone.’

Jack nodded slowly then stuck out a hand. ‘Hello, Belle.’

Belle took his hand: it felt warm and dry, and his grip was strong. ‘Hello, Jack. And thanks. For everything.’

He shrugged that off as if it was nothing.

‘Why are there no mirrors on that dressing table?’ asked Belle.