Seductive Stranger

He laughed gruffly and took her hand between both of his, sat down suddenly on the bed and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. True, Prue,'

he said, his cheek against hers, and she had an uneasy suspicion he was almost crying. 'You look so grown-up.'

'I am grown-up,' she said, trying to laugh, but just as much on edge.

She hadn't known how she would feel when they met again. Her emotions towards her father were so complex: a cat's cradle of anger and pain, love and guilt, too inextricably entwined to be unwound.

She hadn't even been sure if it was wise to come, or whether she should leave him in the past along with all those sad childhood memories. She had been sure only that she wanted to return to Europe for a visit; a holiday would help her to get over the grief of her mother's death, and she felt a yearning for the landscape of her childhood, for those happy far-off years when everything had seemed so safe and unchanging.

She had had to put the trip off for a while, because there was so much to do first. She had sold the furniture, along with the house, and she had worked out a month's notice at the office in Sydney where she'd worked. She had good friends there; she would probably go back on her return to Australia, unless David chose to live elsewhere after their marriage.

'I was sorry to hear about your mother. It's hard to believe she's dead,'

Jim Allardyce said.

'It's hard for me to believe it, too!' she admitted, trying to merge this tired, sad man with the father she remembered.

'It must have been a shock for you, and you had to cope all on your own! You should have cabled me—I'd have come right away.'

'I had lots of good friends to help me, and Mother . ..' Her voice cut out as she realised that she couldn't end that sentence; nor did she need to, surely? He must know that her mother wouldn't have wanted him, of all people, at her funeral?

He flinched, as if she had struck him, and she felt guilty again. She knew nothing about his life today, except that he hadn't married that woman who had wrecked his marriage. Her mother had sneered over that. 'Well, she wouldn't want that, would she? They would both have been ruined,' she had said tartly. She, herself, had remarried; Harry Grant had been a good man, Prue had liked him, and her mother should have been happy, but she had nursed her bitterness and resentment to the end.

'I wrote to you, but you never replied,' Jim Allardyce said. 'Oh, I don't blame you for not answering, Prue, but I wondered . . . did she let you see my letters?'

'Now and then,' she said; but the truth was, her mother had usually suppressed them, and hadn't let her reply. Prue had realised she was being used as a weapon against her father, but there had not been much she could do about it. Her mother had begun to cry if she mentioned him, so she had gradually let his memory fade, then after her mother's death she had found all those faded old letters, hidden in the back of a drawer, and she had been torn between wanting to see her father again, and dreading it. Why dredge up the past? she had argued with herself, but she had come.

'I didn't even recognise your writing!' her father suddenly said, and she looked at him searchingly—had he felt the same muddle of emotion when he got that letter, saying she was coming? Was he, too, still not sure how he really felt?

'Well, it is a long time.' She smiled shakily at him. 'And this isn't how I planned to meet you again, either!'

He laughed at that, relaxing. 'The best laid plans of mice and men?

Maybe it's a blessing in disguise. I was feeling very nervous, waiting at the house for you, listening for the sound of a car. I was already in a state of shock when I heard about your accident.'

'I'm sorry,' she said, liking this familiar stranger whom she had to get to know all over again. 'It's a pity somebody jumped the gun. It would have been better if I could have told you myself; that way you wouldn't have had such a shock. At least you would have known I was OK! When you arrived, I was just thinking that I ought to ring and reassure you before you started calling in bloodhounds to search for me on the moor!' She gave him a wavering grin, then added,

'When we first arrived, the receptionist asked me for my next of kin, and I gave your name and address, so I suppose they let you know?'

He hesitated. 'No, it wasn't the hospital,' he said, looking uneasy, and her curiosity was aroused.

'Then how did you hear?' she firmly persisted. Why should he be reluctant to tell her that?

'It was Josh,' he said, his eyes sliding away, and she had a brief, painfully vivid memory of that expression on his face when he and her mother were having one of their bitter rows. Even when she was a very small girl, Prue had known that her father would do anything to avoid conflict. That look would come into his face; he would be evasive, try to change the subject, escape from the room if he could.

He was not an aggressive or dynamic man, Jim Allardyce. He was gentle—and she had loved his gentleness—but he was also a stubborn man with the unexpected obstinacy of the weak. He had hated the arguments and tension, but he would never give in, especially where the farm was concerned. Before her mother had decided there was another woman, their rows had always begun with the farm, the life it compelled them to live, the lonely emptiness of the landscape in which he lived and worked so happily, but which her mother had hated. Her mother had had so many grievances; she was that sort of woman: sullen, suspicious, jealous.

But why was he looking like that now? 'Josh? she repeated. Who on earth was Josh? Then she remembered, her eyes widening. Wasn't that what the ambulance driver had called the dark man? 'Josh? Is that the man David nearly drove into?' She watched her father's nod. 'You know him?' Her father nodded again, and that surprised her at first, which was stupid, because this was a small community; everyone knew everyone else. She remembered that much, all the gossip and curiosity—it had caused some of the trouble between her parents.

'How is David?' asked her father. 'He's your fiancé, isn't he?'

'Yes, I told you about him in my letter. We're over here to look at Europe for a few weeks—a last big fling before we get married and settle down.' Her face sobered. 'The nurses keep saying he's going to be fine, but you know what hospitals are like—could you find out the truth? They might be frank with you.'

'I'll do my best,' her father said gently, holding her hand in a firm grip,

and she looked down, biting her lower lip. There was silence for a moment; she heard the grave tick of the clock on the wall, an unhurried and remorseless sound.

Prue looked up, remembering something, and blurted out, 'But how did he know who I was?'