behind him with sardonic humour. ‘Hear that, Adam? She says you know each other well. Says that her name is Helen Sheldon. Care to give us a formal ID for the report?’
‘Sure.’ A backlit figure moved around and ducked down to look into the car, and Honor gasped as she saw his face.
‘No. That’s definitely not Helen Sheldon. I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.’
The man that she had thought was Zachary Blake followed up his icy denial with a venomous smile that twisted his mouth from snarl to sneer.
‘Calling you dumb was an understatement. Didn’t it enter your tiny mind that it might seem a trifle suspicious to claim to know me at the same time that you were busy trying to pretend that you thought I was my own brother? Or maybe you’re being very, very clever. Maybe you’re looking ahead to a defence of mental incompetence. Don’t bank on it. Even if this turns out to be the bumbling amateur farce it looks to be I’m going to make sure that the case against you is nailed down tight. As far as I’m concerned people like you are the lowest scum on earth!’
And with that Adam Blake slammed the door and stalked off, leaving Honor in the ruins of her shattered dreams.
That Neanderthal thug, that—that rough, crude, bullying pig was her delightful, passionate, poetic, ideal man? Impossible!
If anyone was laying claim to a false identity, it was Adam Blake!
CHAPTER THREE
ASSISTING the police with their enquiries while trying to retain at least a modicum of personal privacy was hard work, Honor decided wearily that evening as she made herself a solitary dinner.
Three hours! It had taken three hours in that police station to satisfy grim officialdom that she wasn’t a homicidal maniac with a lethal grudge against the Blake family!
Of course, it hadn’t helped that she had not been carrying a skerrick of personal identification, but, as she had pointed out to the slit-eyed Gibbon, handbags were notoriously difficult to juggle on the handlebars of a bicycle! And then there had been the complication of trying to explain her actions without compromising Helen. The police were quite capable of arranging for her sister to be detained at the airport if they thought Honor’s story required her corroboration. Helen would be livid if that happened.
Unfortunately, after she had down-played the whole thing by treating it as a joke, claiming that she had known all along that Adam had been writing to the wrong sister but had decided it was time to ’fess up, the DI had insisted on driving her home and viewing the physical evidence for himself.
Then, instead of just glancing at one of the letters, he had read the entire batch, an invasion of privacy that Honor had endured only because she suspected that he would be happy to produce a search warrant and go through the whole house if she said no.
‘You don’t mind if I borrow this one for a little while, do you?’ he had murmured at last, not bothering to wait for her answer as he had tucked the piece of evidence complacently into his jacket pocket. Naturally it was one of Adam’s steamier efforts and Honor had cringed on his behalf. If he became a police-station joke he would never forgive her. Not that he was likely to now, anyway.
Honor sighed as she ate the desiccated omelette she had overcooked in her distraction. At least there was one consolation. She had achieved what she had set out to do that morning. By now Adam Blake must be fully aware of who she was...and who she wasn’t.
Instead of softening the blow, she had managed to deliver him a real pile-driver!
Another consolation was awaiting her in the refrigerator: a beautifully rich chocolate cake made for her by one of the group of little old ladies among whom she circulated copies of the talking books that she recorded for the Blind Institute.
She cut herself a bigger than usual slice and retreated to her lounge to enjoy the last rays of the sun stretching into the small, north-facing room, sprawling on the carpet by the French doors and turning the stereo up as loud as was comfortable, the poignant, meditative mood of Elgar’s cello concerto perfectly suiting her frame of mind.
Halfway through the concerto her chronically bad-tempered cat, Monty, stalked into the room and availed himself of the last crumbs of cake on the plate before mercilessly clawing a comfortable position in the centre of her supine body, his wheezing, rumbling purr providing a monotonous counterpoint to Sir Edward’s masterly composition.
So loud, in fact, was the music and Monty’s vibrating bass that Honor didn’t hear the bell or the knocking on her distant front door and it was only when the French doors behind her head rattled violently that she realised she had a visitor.
She jerked upright, shrieking as Monty dug his claws through her faded shirt into her skin and hung on grimly as she scrambled to her feet. She staggered to undo the tricky door-catch, at the same time trying to brush off the hugely outraged fluffy burr adhering to her sagging clothes.
The tussle ended when the door flew open under intense pressure from without and Monty, scrabbling for purchase against Honor’s chest, sprang at the interloper’s head and rebounded off it into the relative safety of the darkness beyond.
‘What the hell—?’
Honor didn’t need to open her pained eyes to recognise her cursing visitor. He had greeted her before with that same expression, uttered in that very same, furious tone of voice.
Adam Blake. In black trousers and a black fisherman’s sweater and with a dark scowl on his tanned face he looked larger than ever, and menacingly attractive. The high, hard cheekbones and strong jaw gave him a sculpted male beauty that she had barely registered during their last hasty confrontation. He and Helen would make a striking pair, Honor realised drearily. They were two of a kind, blessed with golden good looks and a physical magnetism that was impossible to ignore.
‘I—I’m sorry.’ To her horror she realised there was a small trickle of blood oozing down his temple and she instantly forgot the stinging on her own chest. ‘It—it was only my cat...’
‘If that’s your cat I’d hate to see your dog!’ Adam swiped at the trickle with the back of a big hand and Honor winced in sympathy.
‘I don’t have a dog—’
‘With a pit-bull like that for a cat I don’t suppose you need one.’
Honor’s heart began to settle back into a more normal rhythm. ‘You startled him, that’s all. He was scared and you were standing between him and freedom.’ She automatically searched in her jeans pocket for a crumpled handkerchief which she apologetically held out to him. ‘Here, you’re still bleeding—’
He ignored the pacifying gesture, producing a handkerchief of his own, a crisp white square, beautifully ironed, with which he dabbed his temple. ‘If you’d turn that bloody noise down you might hear your doorbell!’
Honor bristled as she did so. ‘That noise happens to be Elgar,’ she said tartly, when she had quietened the stereo. ‘I thought you liked classical music.’
His eyes narrowed at the familiarity implicit in the comment. They weren’t so much brown as blond, Honor thought inconsequently, a shade or so deeper than the dark honey hair.
‘Where
