She had thought that this would make him pause, but he answered immediately: “I’ve told you, Belle.” His back, towards her again, gave his voice reason and normality, against all the known facts. “I just want you to make the most of this girl. She’s a gold mine. We can make a lot of money for ourselves – and for the blind. That’s why I was – putting the pressure on.”

In spite of herself, the word ‘was’ fell like a caress, promising her a respite from all threats, all danger, as soon as she agreed to what he wanted.

“But you must have planned it all – a long time ago.”

He shook his head. “No … Cloncraig was a pure coincidence: I really was there to look at some horses. Then I heard about you and Esther, and I travelled over here to see what the form was. It was all as simple as that.”

She realized that, tactically speaking, his quiet, seemingly honest tone was a brilliant variation: it alternated with his recent threats as perfectly as a wave that breaks and then recedes, completing a natural pattern, leaving the sand bare and white for the next footprint … She realized, too, how confident he was, and how well equipped to deal with her at any level. She realized that she had no weapons left: he could destroy her if he wanted to, and he would do so if she stood in his way, since he had nothing to lose thereby. The only thing left to discuss was terms.

But he was before her, even there. He said, suddenly, coaxingly: “You’re still a damned good-looking woman, Belle.”

‘Still’ was not the ideal word, but it did not wholly spoil this sentence … She knew now that the tide was running hopelessly against her. He could ring the changes too expertly: the whisky, the man, the discarded threats were weaving a chain that could only have one end. She felt herself sinking into a haze of soft relief, becoming a woman again, abandoning everything to him.

As he came towards her, she said: “Being good-looking never did me much good, where you were concerned.”

“I’ve learned my lesson.” His voice was gentle, and his next words fell into place as aptly and inevitably as that receding wave. “How about giving it another try, Belle?”

“But what about the girl?” She was getting mixed up, caught between the battle she had just lost, and the swift change of feeling that was putting the two of them on a plane of sensual accord.

“I’ll take care of that.”

“You’ll spoil it all if you overdo it.”

“I won’t overdo anything.”

She sighed. “It’s a long time since we’ve been together like this.”

“I won’t overdo anything.”

Chapter Ten

The things they now did to Esther Costello would not have disgraced a twilight advertising agency whose executives, competing for a new account, were determined to leave no avenue unexplored, no stone unthrown, no throat uncut. With Captain Charles Bannister – no stranger to personal exploitation – in charge, they got to work on Esther with at least as much energy, determination, and optimism as had the doctors, when she first arrived in America. Happily for them, personal exploitation proved a much more exact science than medicine, where Esther was concerned.