Saving Grace. Carole Mortimer

of Tim, instantly recognisable, from babyhood up, and, next to these, formal photographs of a man with hair as bright a red as his two offspring—for this surely had to be Grace's father—and he was laughing down into the face of the woman who stood at his side, a woman with Grace's face and yet somehow different: her mother and father, Jordan knew without a doubt.

      On the other side of these was a display of ones of Grace Brown from babyhood through to adolescence and on up to the present day. In at least two of these—it was exactly two, Jordan knew without hesitation!—a tall, blond-haired man stood at her side. Tall and blond, handsome in a rakish way, several years older than Jordan himself, vaguely familiar, as if Jordan should recognise him, and yet he didn't.

      What was he doing in the photographs with Grace? Could he be her boyfriend? Jordan frowned at this possibility.

      ‘Did you manage to find the telephone?'

      He turned with a guilty start at the husky sound of Grace's voice, although she didn't look accusing, just curious.

      ‘The pictures of Timothy caught my attention,’ he excused with a shrug—although it must be obvious to Grace that he hadn't been standing anywhere near the photographs of Timothy when she entered the room! ‘He's a lovely child.'

      ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged indulgently, moving further into the room to pick up one of the earlier photographs of her brother. ‘He was a good baby too,’ she reminisced, remembering the fun she and her father had had with the contented baby Timothy had been; it had been an outlet they had both needed after the death of her mother.

      Jordan looked at her as she stood bent over the photographs, lost in memories he couldn't even begin to guess at, let alone share, her face given a warm glow from the light given off by the small lamp that stood on the sideboard.

      She looked very young and vulnerable at that moment, no more than a child herself, certainly not capable of carrying all the responsibilities she seemed to have. Jordan wanted to take her in his arms and relieve her of all those responsibilities, wanted to smooth that frown from between her eyes, wanted to kiss the soft peach of those slightly parted lips—what the hell …?

      Grace looked up, misunderstanding the scowl on his face, putting the photograph down with a thud. ‘I'll leave you to make your call,’ she excused, turning to leave.

      Jordan was too dazed by his unexpected response to her seconds ago to try and stop her!

      Oh, he wasn't as cold and removed from human need as his sister seemed to think he was, had been attracted to women, desired them, made love to them. But that attraction had always been to women, moreover women who knew exactly what sort of relationship he required of them, the relationship always terminating amicably, with perhaps an expensive gift of jewellery on his part to soften the blow of parting. These affairs had been games, with both players knowing the rules.

      Grace Brown wasn't a player.

      She wasn't even a woman, merely a vulnerable young girl. But a few minutes ago he had wanted her with a fierceness he could never remember experiencing before! His hand shook slightly as he reached out to pick up the receiver, needing contact with his normal life.

      He should really leave here now—that would be the best thing to do before he became any more embroiled in Grace Brown's life. Before he couldn't control that desire he had had to take her in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless.

      Rhea answered the call on the private line at Quinlan House, her voice warm with recognition once he had said hello, the contentment she had found as Raff's wife evident even over the telephone. ‘How did you get on?’ she prompted interestedly.

      ‘Fine,’ Jordan evaded.

      ‘And Miss Brown, is she—–?'

      ‘We'll talk about it when I get home,’ he cut in curtly.

      ‘OK,’ his sister accepted easily, used to his abrupt ways.

      ‘The thing is …’ he continued. No, Jordan, no, he anxiously instructed himself. Tell Rhea you'll be back tomorrow, as originally planned, that you'll be back in time for lunch, dinner at the latest. ‘I've decided not to come straight back,’ he heard himself add lightly. ‘I thought I might take a short holiday up here.'

      He should leave now. Not tomorrow. Not in a few days’ time. But now. He knew he should leave.

      ‘We've been telling you for months to take a holiday,’ Rhea said with warm approval. ‘But isn't the weather a little cold up at the Lakes this time of year?'

      ‘Possibly,’ he accepted non-committally. ‘But I need the break more than the warm weather.’ But not here, he was desperately telling himself inside his head. Not anywhere near Grace Brown!

      ‘Yes, but—–'

      ‘Rhea,’ he cut in tersely, ‘unlike you when you decided to flit off and not tell anyone—least of all me—where you were going, I am