IT WAS late on a wet, dark Sunday night when Sophie Marlow, in a black, angry mood in keeping with the elements, drove back from London to Gloucestershire. Her mood deteriorated even further when headlights which appeared in her rearview mirror on the turnoff from the motorway stayed with her all the way to Long Ashley, making her very edgy by the time the familiar boundary walls finally came into view through the rain sheeting down in the beam of her headlights.

Five entrances punctuated the walls, each with a small lodge house, four of which were owned by the estate. One of the these was Sophie's home, part of the perks of her job as estate administrator and PA to the director and general manager of Highfield Hall International, the exclusive-use conference centre which had employed her for the past four years. She counted the lodges off as she drove along the narrow, curving road, and blew out her cheeks in relief when the pursuing headlights suddenly vanished from her rearview mirror. The car had turned in at the only privately owned cottage, Ewen and Rosanna Fraser's place. Odd they hadn't let her know they were coming. She turned in at her own gateway at last, relaxing when security lights switched on outside the cottage.

Sophie made a dash through the downpour to unlock the front door and switched on the light in the narrow hall, her spirits rising further at the welcome sight of her own apricot walls and white painted plasterwork. Glen Taylor, until recently the male presence in her life, had urged her to paint the beautiful covings and dados black against grey walls — worse still, to exchange her chintz and watercolours for black leather and Japanese prints in minimalist style totally alien to a Victorian cottage. After today's disaster Sophie could only thank her lucky stars she'd firmly refused to let him move in with her, as he'd wanted.

With a shudder at the very idea, she dumped her bags down and went to the kitchen to listen to her messages while the kettle boiled.

"Hi, Sophie," said Stephen Laing, her boss. "Ewen Fraser rang to say he's letting a friend stay at his cottage for a while to finish a book. Name of Smith. I promised Ewen you'd look after his pal well, so make time to pay a call on him to confirm his requirements as to catering, cleaning, etc. See you Tuesday."

Hoping he meant Murray Smith, one of her favourite authors, Sophie listened to her second message.

"Hi, Sophie. Luce here. Ring me for a chat."

"Sophie!" said the last voice, which was male, familiar and furious. "What the hell did you take off like that for? Ring me. Now."

Not now. Not ever. Sophie glared balefully at the machine, made a note to visit Ewen Fraser's tenant, but postponed the call to her friend until next day. She made herself a cup of tea and curled up on the sofa in her small sitting room, feeling as though she'd survived some life- threatening disaster. Glen Taylor, until recently head chef at Highfield Hall, was a genius in the kitchen, with the volatile temperament that went with the territory. But today he'd overstepped the mark so far Sophie never wanted to lay eyes on him again. Deep down, even in the beginning, when he'd been at his most charming and persuasive, she'd always veered away from something unsettling about Glen; the indefinable something he brought to the genius which had quickly made the Highfield restaurant so renowned. Stephen Laing had been furious when Glen threw up his job after only a few months to open a place of his own in London.

"He'll find that working for himself is a different ball- game, TV chef or not," Stephen told Sophie. "Glen may have been cock of the walk here at Highfield, but in London he'll be a very small fish in a huge, competitive pond. So if you're wise you'll steer well clear of his business affairs."

Sophie had great respect for Stephen Laing's acumen. And common sense of her own. So today, when Glen had taken it for granted she would not only sink her savings into his new venture but also give up her job and her home and work as his manager for free until the business got going, she'd laughed in his face and refused. At first, Glen hadn't believed her, so sure of her consent he'd thought she was teasing, and tried to bring her round with sexual persuasion which turned ugly when she remained obdurate.

"You'll come running back," he'd sneered, when Sophie stormed out of his flat. "You're mad about me, and you know it."

Mad to have had anything to do with him, thought Sophie, seething. Glen's looks were a great success on television cooking programmes. And in the beginning she had liked him well enough. But today whatever lukewarm feelings she'd had left for him had vanished entirely. Her mouth twisted in angry distaste. She could see Glen Taylor all too clearly now that their short relationship was over. He'd made it plain from the beginning that he wanted her in his bed. But it was obvious in hindsight that he'd felt equal lust — possibly more — for her administrative skills.

To damp down the temper still boiling away inside her Sophie went off to lie chin-deep in steaming bubbles, only to groan in frustration when the doorbell rang the moment she'd begun to relax. She jumped out of the bath, tied on a towelling robe, twisted a towel into a turban round her wet hair, and ran downstairs. Then came skidding to a halt in the hall, suddenly afraid that Glen might have come chasing down from London after her.

Afraid? Sophie squared her shoulders, opened the door a crack as far as the safety chain allowed, and peered up into eyes which were the only feature visible between the brim of a dripping hat and the upturned collar of a caped raincoat.

"Good evening," said the stranger. "Miss Marlow?" 'Yes?" 'Sorry to disturb you. My name's Jago Smith. I'm staying at the Frasers' place for a while."

Not Murray Smith, then. Pity. Sophie smiled politely. "How do you do? Is there something you need?"

The man shook his head, spraying raindrops so liberally he dodged back quickly into the shadows. "No thanks — at least not right now. But Ewen advised introducing myself right away, to show I'm not squatting illegally."

"I already knew about you, Mr Smith," she assured him. "A message was waiting for me when I got home just now."

The eyes dropped to her bare feet. "I should have rung instead of barging in like this. My apologies."

"Not at all. Did Ewen mention that I'm the estate administrator? I can arrange for anything you need." 'Thank you. Perhaps we could discuss that tomorrow? At a time convenient to you, of course."

Odd, thought Sophie. All she could see was a pair of eyes, but something about the stranger appealed to her. Strongly. "I usually finish about six-thirty," she said, after a pause. "Perhaps you'd call round then."

"Better still, I could give you a drink at Ewen's place." Sophie thought it over for a moment, then nodded. "Right. About seven, then."

He touched a finger to his hatbrim, said goodnight and sprinted down the path through the downpour. Sophie closed her front door, refastened the chain, and for the first time since she'd lived at Ivy Lodge slammed the substantial bolt into place. Glen's fault. Today he'd succeeded in making her physically afraid for the first time in her life. Cursing herself for letting him have a key, she added a change of locks to her check-list for next day. Just in case.

First thing next morning Sophie told the startled receptionist that she was permanently unavailable to Glen Taylor if he should ring. Then as usual she began her day by changing the closed circuit television tape before sorting the mail, and afterwards made a start on the dictation tape Stephen had left for her. While she worked she dealt with a constant stream of phone calls, one of which, as was often the case, was a routine request to land a helicopter. She confirmed that the helipad and surrounding area would be free at the requested time, sent a memo to all heads of department to inform them when the helicopter would be landing, then gave lunch in the staff restaurant a miss to hurry home through the rain to meet the locksmith.

Afterwards, feeling much happier with a new set of keys in her possession, Sophie went back to the Hall to collect her messages from Reception. In her office she discarded two from Glen, unread, and settled down to return the others. Due to constant interruptions from the phone it took her the rest of the afternoon to complete the minutes of a meeting she'd taken the previous Friday, but at last she was able to take advantage of Stephen's absence to leave on time for once. Grateful, as always, for not having to commute, she walked home through an evening no longer full of rain, but dark enough to keep her to the main, floodlit walkways.

When Sophie arrived home there were more furious messages from Glen, who was savage with rage after being ignored all day. The theme of all three messages was the same. He would forgive her if she did what he wanted. Otherwise she would be sorry.

Sophie was already sorry. Sorry she'd ever met him. She rang Lucy to give her the news, by this time able to laugh when her friend described Glen Taylor in words so graphic that Sophie's ears burned.

"You're well shot of him," said her friend forcefully. "I could never understand what you saw in him. I know he's a genius with a frying pan, and all that, but I can only suppose he's even more inspired in bed."

"Frying pan! Glen would blow a fuse if he heard that one."

"I was always afraid he would, you know." 'He almost did yesterday. But don't worry, he won't get the chance again."

After Lucy rang off Sophie raced through a shower and dried her hair at top speed. Afterwards, dressed in black trousers and a sweater the same russet shade of her hair, she made sure all her new locks were secured, belted on a long black trenchcoat, collected umbrella and torch and set off for the cottage Ewen Fraser had inherited from his great uncle.

The door opened the moment she rang the bell, to reveal Jago Smith under the hall light, smiling in welcome. Sophie's answering smile was warm for a split second. Then it died abruptly. Her heart gave a sickening lurch as recognition stabbed her like a knife. Without the raincoat and hat of the night before Jago Smith was revealed as tall and slim-hipped in a vivid green wool shirt and outrageously tight jeans, his dark waving hair a frame for a good-looking, confident face she remembered only too well.

"Good evening, Miss Marlow. Come in." Unaware of the shell- shock his visitor was suffering, he ushered her into a sitting room identical to her own in size and shape, with comfortable sofas, shelves full of blue and white porcelain, walls literally covered with pictures, and on a small table a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine flanked by a crystal dish of nuts. "Let me take your coat and give you a drink."

Sophie pulled herself together. "No thanks," she said shortly. "I can't stay. If you'll just tell me what you need, I must get back."

His grey eyes narrowed. "In which case, rather than waste your time, Miss Marlow, I could have phoned and saved you the walk over here tonight."

A better idea all round if only she'd recognised him the night before. Sophie took a notebook from her bag and got down to business. "But since I am here, Mr Smith, I'll jot down a few details. I can arrange cleaning, laundry, even catering if you want. The restaurant at the Hall is excellent, but if you prefer to eat here they'll send food over."

"So Ewen told me," he said, his eyes trained on her face. "The cottage is still reasonably tidy for the time being, mainly because I'm working upstairs in the Frasers' spare bedroom. But a quick blitz from someone now and then would be good. But only for an hour or two. I can't concentrate with someone in the house."

"I'll arrange for one of the cleaners to come and chat with you," said Sophie, avoiding eye contact. "You can work out what you want, laundry included, even food- shopping if you want."