than before, but this time Sinclair was there before her. She cursed him in fulminating silence. Now she’d have to run extra laps just to save face. The familiar, lean figure soon flowed past with its usual grace, and a slight smile came her way before Sinclair raced off into the distance, gathering speed. Rose gritted her teeth and pounded doggedly on until sweat soaked from her hair into the towelling band and each breath was like a spear through the ribs. Her running companion lapped her with increasing ease, but Rose forced herself to look straight ahead, counting the circuits until the magic number four released her from torture and she could escape.
This time the others were worried when Rose collapsed, crimson-faced and sweating, on Con’s bed.
‘No need to kill yourself, love,’ said Fabia, pulling her shoes off.
‘Was he there?’ demanded Con.
‘Of—course he—was there!’ Rose heaved in a deep breath, eyeing the others malevolently. ‘Before me. I had to do four circuits.’
‘Brilliant,’ crowed Fabia. ‘Think how fit you’ll be—and I bet he noticed you this time.’
‘He could hardly fail to; he lapped me often enough.’ Rose dragged herself up, groaning. ‘Right. For pity’s sake make me some coffee while I shower, please.’
Rose was allowed a run-free morning next day, purely, Con decreed, because it was a Saturday, and she could watch Sinclair play rugby in the afternoon instead. ‘And just to fog the issue a bit we’ll come with you, and cheer on Will Hargreaves. Someone’s injured, so Will’s got a place on the team today. So useful.’
Fabia was all for Rose turning up in her running clothes, complete with red sweat-band, so Sinclair would remember her, but Con wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Much too obvious. Rose can wear whatever she usually wears to stand ankle-deep in mud in a howling wind. Oh, how I wish it was summer, and Sinclair played cricket!’ She sighed regretfully. ‘Actually the whole scheme would be better in hot weather. You could strip off a bit, Rose. When the male of the species registers bare female flesh he gives off more pheromones—’
‘Stop it,’ howled Rose. ‘I don’t want to know!’
Normally she bemoaned her lack of inches, but at the match she was only too pleased to tuck herself between her tall friends, with lanky Joe Kidd and a few more yelling males for cover as they cheered the home team on to victory over a neighbouring college. Sinclair, at outside half, played with a brilliance which roused a frenzy of appreciation in his fans on the touchline, but Rose’s gloom deepened with every penalty he kicked between the posts. If only she’d set out to capture some ordinary mortal’s interest she might have at least had some chance of success. But with Sinclair she hadn’t a hope. She could just give up, of course. But her Dryden backbone stiffened at the mere idea. When the referee blew the whistle after Sinclair threw himself over the line to score a final try, Rose watched the mud-covered hero leave the field surrounded by shoulder-slapping team mates, and made herself a solemn vow. She would succeed. Somehow.
While the trio were thawing out over mugs of coffee back in the flat later, Will Hargreaves rang with the news that the rugby crowd would be in the Sceptre in the town that night.
‘Thanks, Will,’ said Con triumphantly. ‘Keep us a seat.’
Fabia turned to Rose with a militant gleam in her eye. ‘Right. Let’s get to work. By the time we finish with you, Rosebud, the great Sinclair can’t fail to notice you.’
Deaf to her protests, Con and Fabia curled up Rose’s newly-washed hair, bullied her into a skinny-ribbed sweater of Con’s and a pair of Rose’s own denims discarded as too tight. Then they sat her down in front of a mirror and went to work on her face with the intentness of Renaissance painters creating a masterpiece.
‘My word,’ exclaimed Fabia when they’d brushed Rose’s hair into a rippling waterfall down her back. ‘Didn’t we do well?’
Rose eyed her reflection with a touch of awe. Outlined in black, violet shadow in the hollows, her eyes looked larger in her small, triangular face, balancing the wide, full-lipped mouth Con had outlined with a pencil then painted with natural lip-gloss to leave the eyes to dominate. ‘I look so different—’
‘You look gorgeous, Rose,’ said Con, so obviously sincere that Rose relaxed.
‘Not too much over the top?’
‘No,’ said Fabia, patting her shoulder. ‘We just added a few touches. The basic material was there to start with.’
The Sceptre was crowded by the time they arrived, but Will and Joe had kept places for them at a corner table near the bar. Rose spotted her quarry the moment she arrived. The thick dark hair and honed bone structure of his face were unmistakable. Even laughing among a group of his friends he stood out from the rest; something so mature and self-contained about him Rose felt a sudden stab of panic, glad to slide into a seat with her back to the room.
‘Don’t look at him,’ whispered Con. ‘We’ll tell you what to do next.’
‘Dance on the table?’ snapped Rose.
‘If you like! But first I’ll tell you when it’s your round so you can go up to the bar.’
Rose suddenly regretted the cheeseburger she’d wolfed on the way back from the match. She smiled her thanks when Miles, one of her most faithful admirers, put a glass of lager in front of her, but the very thought of it made her gag. She turned to Joe Kidd determinedly and began to discuss the match, but for once Joe, normally a devotee of Con’s, was more interested in chatting Rose up than talking rugby.
There was an unmistakable gleam in his eye as he looked her up and down. ‘What have you done to yourself, Rosie? You look—’
‘Back off, Joe,’ whispered Con urgently, glaring at him. Then, in an undertone reminded Rose of her priorities. ‘Sinclair’s just gone up to the bar to get a round in. On your bike.’
‘But we’ve all got drinks,’ muttered Rose wildly.
‘Buy some peanuts, or something.’ Con tugged her to her feet. ‘Go.’
Rose pushed her way through the crowd and, conscious that her eagle-eyed mentors were watching, managed to wriggle eventually into a space alongside Sinclair. He glanced down at her and, as instructed, Rose gave him a cool little smile, then looked away, stomach churning. Her heart leapt as she felt fingers brush her arm. Pulse racing, she turned to look up into eyes the colour of burnished pewter.
‘Hello,’ said Sinclair. ‘Don’t I know you?’
CHAPTER TWO
THE deep voice held a trace of Scots accent which did alarming things to Rose’s knees. Heart thumping under the clinging pink sweater, she somehow managed to follow Con’s instructions and frowned, pretending to think, but before she could mention the stadium he snapped his fingers.
‘Pocahontas with the rope of hair!’ he exclaimed, and gave her a slow smile which put a final end to any nonsense about giving up her scheme. ‘I’ve seen you at the track.’
‘Oh, right.’ Rose returned the smile, deeply grateful that he hadn’t needed a reminder. ‘I’m not there often enough, I’m afraid.’ She took the bull by the horns.
