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heart. 'It was a fantastic evening,' he said warmly. 'We must do it again.'
    'Yes. We will. When the grass needs cutting again, perhaps,' she said, teasing him, smiling. She laid her hand along his cheek in an impulsive gesture of affection that had unconsciously endeared her to many men. 'Thanks—for everything.' Glancing at Mark Barlow, she saw that he watched them with a slight, mocking smile. She felt like throwing something at that handsome head. Her chin tilted. 'Goodnight,' she said coldly, meeting his eyes.
    'Goodnight, Gillian,' he returned carelessly, turning away and striding towards his parked car.
    She fumed. She hadn't made him a present of her first name! How dared he use it so casually—and how dared he walk away as though she didn't merit the common courtesies? He hadn't even thanked her for the coffee!
    His Mercedes, gleaming opulently in the light from a street lamp, was parked just behind her Mini, almost touching its rear bumper. Worlds apart and with nothing in common—just as they were and would always remain, she realised.
    She watched the competent economy of his movements as he produced car keys, opened the door and swung himself behind the wheel. He turned on the ignition then leaned across to open the passenger door for Steve.
    Gillian waved goodnight. Only Steve responded with a cheerful wave of his hand and his ready smile. Mark Barlow had already dismissed her, she knew.
    As the Mercedes drew smoothly away from the kerb, she went back into the flat and closed and locked the door.
    The rooms seemed empty as she went from one to the other, clearing away the coffee cups and rinsing them beneath the running tap, tidying the living-room and kitchen, securing the windows, getting ready for bed. Steve wasn't a big man by any means but he had seemed to fill the place with his warm, extrovert personality. It was absurd but she missed him already.
    She continued to think about Steve as she undressed and brushed her pale hair into a silky cloud about her head, then climbed between the sheets of the wide double bed. He was a dear. She liked him so much. He hadn't put a foot wrong all evening. Gillian hoped that he liked her just as much and felt reasonably confident that he did, recalling the smile in his eyes and the warmth in his voice and the way he had kissed her on parting. That kiss had been a promise for the future, she decided with satisfaction.
    Resolutely thinking about Steve as she put out the bedside light and snuggled down, she didn't know why such a vivid image of Mark Barlow should be stubbornly etched on her closed eyelids for all her efforts to thrust it aside and go to sleep.
    A handsome, sensual face with its strongly sculptured features and deep-set eyes and mobile mouth, spoiled for Gillian by the sardonic expression , the cold smile and the haughty lift of an eyebrow. But, remembering the way that he had smiled and looked at the lovely Louise Penistone, she could believe that he might be very attractive to women.
    He dressed too formally for her liking although she admitted that he looked well in his obviously expensive clothes. But she preferred Steve's casual and comfortable appearance. He wore his dark, crisply curling hair a little too long, she thought critically, seeing in her mind's eye the impatient hand brushing it back from his brow in an habitual gesture while he talked. The best thing about Mark Barlow was his hands. They had impressed her.
    Strong, sensitive, capable—they were surgeon's hands. Competent hands, inspiring confidence. Hands that would always know exactly what to do, whether wielding a scalpel to save a life or moving across a woman's body in experienced caress.
    Gillian jerked her thoughts to a halt, slightly shocked that they had wandered in such a dangerous direction. She might admire Mark Barlow's hands but she had not the slightest desire to know the touch of them on any part of her body, with or without a scalpel!
    She didn't know him. She didn't