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The journey did not seem so long as she thought it would be, principally because of the comfort of the large car. Reeve pulled into a parking slot alongside the white terminal building. 'We might as well go inside and wait,' he suggested, 'the observation lounge is less cramped than a car.' The Rover was far from cramped, but the observation lounge offered the prospect of other people, who would serve to distract her from the unwelcome awareness she felt at Reeve's close proximity. Perhaps take away the memory of the treacherous sweetness of his kiss the evening before, that insisted on returning despite her efforts to make it go away.
    'Let's go and sit over by the window and have some lunch while we're waiting.' Before she could refuse, he spoke to a girl in staff uniform, and placing his hand under Marion's elbow he guided her towards a table beside the huge plate glass windows that walled one complete side of the lounge.
    'What a wonderful view!' The activity on the ground captivated her attention, and made Reeve at least temporarily take second place. Two airliners were parked close to the terminal building, in the process of unloading their passengers, and she took the seat Reeve held out for her automatically, while she watched.
    'Haven't you been here before?' Reeve asked her, and he sounded surprised. To Marion, his question sounded so much like the polite opening gambit of a strange partner at a dance—'do you come here often?'—that a reluctant smile lit her face.
    'No, but I haven't had a lot of time really. I've only been back in the valley for about a year. This was still an Air Force station when I used to visit my aunt and uncle while I was small. It's only been a civilian airport for the last eight years or so.'
    'And what made you neglect your relatives for the last eight years?'
    'Art college at first.' Marion paused while the waitress brought their order—Reeve's order, he had not consulted her—and discovered she was hungry after all. The plate of smoked salmon in front of her, flanked by a bowl of crisp salad, and crusty rolls that felt hot to her touch, were an added appetiser, and she went on more readily, covering her initial awkwardness with conversation, 'Afterwards I had a stroke of luck that brought my work some recognition, so I've been able to freelance ever since, and several commissions have taken me abroad for quite long periods.'
    She did not think it was necessary to add that the stroke of luck she referred to was in fact a coveted award won, not by luck, but by a piece of brilliant and original design work that brought her instant acclaim, and a request to submit her ideas from a firm that bore a world-famous name. Other such requests followed, and these gave her the opportunity to practise her talent while working where she pleased, and rapidly made her name known and respected in her particular field.
    'So the Fleece isn't really your home?' Reeve looked thoughtful for some reason. It could have been that he was simply intent in dissecting his roll in order to butter it to his satisfaction. He did not look up when Marion replied.
    'No, I quae back to keep Uncle Miles company after my aunt died. We're all the family each other has got,' she explained somewhat inarticulately.
    'He seems to be pretty well absorbed with his hobby, from what you said,' Reeve commented, 'and I must say it's a particularly interesting one.'
    'He seems to live for it, these days,' Marion replied. 'Fortunately, running the Fleece these days doesn't make too many demands on him, and Mrs Pugh's an excellent manager. He seems content to leave her with it.'
    'And you?' he queried, with a slight lift of his dark brows.
    'I'm free to concentrate on my work again now, and— well—I suppose just be there.'
    'For how long?' he asked softly.
    'I haven't really given it any thought,' she answered him stiffly. It was no business of his why she was staying on at the Fleece, or for how long she chose to remain. 'The