Page 13 of Reasons Of the Heart

'For goodness' sake, he's a grown man! He doesn't need you to run interference for him,' she said tartly.

'Even grown men have trouble figuring out women sometimes. Why are you going out with him, anyway? I wouldn't have thought he was your type.'

'And what is my type?' she was unable to resist asking.

His eyebrows rose mockingly. 'Don't you know? Dear me, Frankie, it sounds as if your love-life to date has been sadly lacking.'

'My love-life has been entirely satisfactory,' she fibbed.

'Damned with faint praise, huh?' he grinned taunt­ingly. 'Seems us country boys might be able to teach your sophisticated city slickers a thing or two, after all.'

'You can cut out the "down home" accent, Ross.' Her eyes sparkled with temper. 'You said you didn't live around here any more, and I scarcely think that there'd be much call for your kind of services in quiet rural backwaters!'

'You can take the boy out of the country, Princess...' he said mirthfully, and again she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was laughing at more than just the present conversation. 'But you're right, the pickings are richer in the cities... more women to the square metre.' He took another swig of his soup and eyed her provoca­tively. 'But you're very cleverly evading my question. Never mind, we both know the real reason you agreed to go out with Neville...'

Fran gave him a haughty look. She wasn't going to touch that one with a barge-pole. Besides, she knew he intended to enlighten her anyway. And so he did.

'Actually there are two. The first is that you don't trust yourself alone with me... and the second is that you're dying to pump poor old Nev for information, or should I say ammunition, you can use against me.'

'You arrogant hulk!' Fran snapped, furious that he had caught her out in the latter, and insulted her by the former. 'It's you I don't trust.' She thought of adding that he left her cold, but the words suddenly stuck in her throat. Also, his gross male ego might take it as a challenge. 'I happen to think that Neville is an extremely attractive man.'

Her dignity cut little ice. 'Oh, sure, and you have no intention of even mentioning me during your hot date.'

'Why should I spoil a nice evening?' Fran flared. 'But maybe I ought to warn him about how you make a living, if he doesn't already know. The police might want to issue a warning to people to lock up their daughters.'

'And wives,' he told her with outrageous cheerful­ness. 'And mothers and grandmothers. No woman is turned from my door.'

'Except those who can't afford your fees,' she said, certain that he was exaggerating just to rattle her. With his looks, Ross could probably pick and choose his 'clients' very carefully.

'Oh, I do a certain amount of charity work,' he laughed. 'Ask Neville. I bet you won't be able to resist. Admit it, you're as curious as a cat about me. Why don't you just forget about going out with Neville and stay home with me? That way you cut out the middle man.'

A flash of headlights shone through the kitchen window and rescued Fran from a fast degenerating situ­ation. 'That's him now,' she said with visible relief, taking the cabin key from the top of the fridge and putting it in her slim clutch bag. 'We might be late, so don't bother to wait up for me.'

'Don't do anything I wouldn't do,' he chuckled, toasting her with his mug.

'That really narrows the field down, doesn't it? Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as she threw open the kitchen door and stepped outside, pursued by his laughter.

'Ten bucks says you won't get through the night without giving in to your insatiable desire to know me better, Princess!'

The throaty challenge rang in her ears as she greeted Neville's appreciative hello. Unfortunately he had heard Ross's laughter, if not his comment, and, as she got into the car, asked her what the joke had been. The date was only five seconds old and already the subject was that wretched man. Well, she would eat poison before she would let him be proved right! She would forget all about her insufferable house-guest and just enjoy her night out.

It wasn't easy. The consciousness that she wasn't going to mention his name kept in the forefront of her mind, an invisible third person at the dinner table, monitoring her conversation. In spite of that, the evening was pleasant. In a way, Neville reminded her of Brian; they both had the same, rather complacent view of their lives stretching ahead of them, from point A to point B, like a neatly kerbed and well sealed highway. Fran, who had just taken an abrupt turn on to a sharply rutted side-road, felt the faint stirrings of impatience even as she enjoyed the comfortable tenor of Neville's unthreatening flattery. He was obviously interested in seeing her again, but Fran was politely non-committal. She had just es­caped one dead-end relationship; she didn't want to embark, even briefly, on another. She needed to reserve her energy for more important things...

'...coincidence that you're both up here from Auckland convalescing at the same time. Did you ever run into each other in the big city?'

Francesca suddenly registered what he was saying, and her firm resolve vanished on the instant. 'Has Ross been ill?' she enquired sharply.

'Didn't he tell you?' He looked surprised, then grinned. 'I suppose he's fed up with all the sympathy— he was always so savagely healthy, I guess being laid up has been driving him crazy. Remember that time he broke his nose? The coach had to practically manhandle him off the football field. Never say die, that's Ross's motto.'

'How—?' Fran took a sip of wine to stop herself forming the question. If Neville chose to tell her she would listen, but she would not ask.

'Sky-diving,' he obliged genially. 'His 'chute tangled and wouldn't detach, and so did his emergency. Smashed himself up pretty badly...oh, about four months ago, I think it was.'

'He was lucky even to survive,' said Fran, tight-lipped, her surge of horror overtaken by anger. If he was conva­lescing, what was he doing sliding down cliffs? Not that his pig-headedness was anything she could control. She felt thoroughly sorry for the doctors and nurses who had looked after him; he had probably made their lives hell. Or, in the case of the nurses, heaven—the traitorous thought sneaked into her mind.

Determinedly she managed to get through the rest of the evening with her curiosity under tight rein. In a com­plete volte-face she decided that she didn't need to know anything personal about Ross Tarrant—she didn't want to know anything. She would just hang on grimly to her hopes and soon he would be back firmly where he be­longed ... in her past.

CHAPTER FOUR

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