alone.’
Con was undeterred. ‘Sinclair noticed you, remembered you, wanted to buy you a drink, then came after you to make sure you were safe. Don’t worry about the little girl aspect, ducky—remember Lolita!’
Embarking on phase two of Con’s plan, Rose missed the next day’s run, but after completing a third circuit in solitude the following morning had begun to think all the heart-pounding effort was in vain by the time the familiar athletic figure appeared. She returned the smile Sinclair gave her as he passed, completed the circuit, then left before he could lap her, or she fell in a heap. Whichever came first.
She wouldn’t have admitted it to the others, but it was an effort of will to stay away from the track next morning. But none at all to stay in the same night.
‘I must do some work,’ she said firmly. Because Sinclair never patronised it, an evening at the students’ union no longer held the same allure.
Rose no longer needed a morning call for her run. Next morning she was out of the room by six-thirty, shivering in the cold half-light as she hurried to the stadium, openly looking forward, now, to her early-morning glimpse of Sinclair. To her horror he was there before her again. She groaned. Now she’d have to do even more circuits just to keep up the myth that she liked running. She jogged up and down on the spot for a moment, to warn muscles of the coming ordeal, then started down the track at a speed moderate enough to give her any hope of staying the course long enough to look convincing.
When Sinclair passed her this time she was rewarded with a ‘Hi!’ to go with the smile as he went flying by.
‘Hi,’ panted Rose, and ran on, making no attempt to catch up with him. This, she soon found, wasn’t necessary. The next time Sinclair caught up with her he slowed down and ran with her.
‘Come on, try to speed up a little,’ he exhorted, not even out of breath.
Rose did her best to obey, but after three gruelling circuits she flung up her hands in surrender and slumped down at the side of the track, her head on her knees as she tried to get her breath back.
Sinclair hunkered down beside her, looking concerned. ‘Hey, sorry, Rose. I didn’t mean to finish you off.’
She turned a crimson, sweating face up to his. ‘I’m not—in your—class,’ she gasped.
‘You easily could be. Come every morning for a while. You’ll soon get into shape. Not,’ he added, with the smile that was no help to Rose in trying to breathe normally, ‘that there’s anything wrong with yours.’
She scrambled hastily to her feet, glad that her crimson face could hardly turn redder. ‘Time I got back to shower.’
‘Ah. You don’t care for personal remarks.’
She liked his a lot. Rose smiled non-committally as he fell in step beside her, wondering if he meant to see her back to the flat again.
‘I bring some kit and have a shower here sometimes when I’ve got lectures,’ he said casually. ‘If you do the same tomorrow we could have breakfast afterwards in the transport café down the hill.’
Rose felt a rush of excitement, wondering if this would be Con’s idea of progress. Not that it mattered. By this time, plan or no plan, Rose Dryden was totally committed to her crusade to make the lofty, uninterested-in-women James Sinclair fall in love with her. Nothing was going to persuade her from it until she either succeeded, or he told her to get lost.
‘If it doesn’t appeal to you, don’t worry,’ he said curtly, and turned away.
Rose came to with a start. ‘It appeals very much. I’d like that.’
‘Right, then,’ he said briskly. ‘See you in the morning.’
Rose passed acquaintances by unnoticed as she jogged back to the flat in a dream. Her reception committee was waiting impatiently, as usual, demanding every last detail of the encounter.
‘Wow,’ said Fabia in awe. ‘You’re definitely winning, Rose.’
‘But the prize is breakfast in a transport caff after slogging round the racetrack, not a candlelit dinner for two,’ Rose reminded her, deliberately prosaic to hide her elation.
‘Where Sinclair’s concerned,’ said Con, laughing, ‘it probably counts for the same thing.’
When Rose arrived at the stadium next morning, sports bag in hand, Sinclair was racing round the track at a speed that exhausted her to watch.
‘Hi,’ he panted, coming to a stop beside her. ‘Come on, a slow turn or two to warm up, then speed up a bit each circuit as you go along.’
When they took off round the track together Sinclair somehow managed to restrain his long stride to keep up with Rose as they ran, and to her surprise her technique improved so much with Sinclair for coach and pacemaker she even managed to stay upright when he called it a day at last and let her stop.
‘Into the shower,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t be long.’
Inside the deserted women’s section Rose swathed her hair in a towel and leaned into a spray as hot as she could bear, then towelled herself hastily, slapped on some of the body lotion Fabia had provided, zipped up a yellow hooded sweatshirt and wriggled into the clinging jeans. Con had ordered her to use eyeshadow and mascara, but Rose was so eager to rejoin Sinclair she didn’t bother. She loosened the braid, tied her hair back with a velvet ribbon and put some lipstick on as a gesture to the occasion. When she joined Sinclair outside her entire body simmered with excitement which increased when she saw the gleam of approval in his eyes.
‘If you feel as good as you look,’ he told her, taking her bag, ‘the run was a success.’
‘I feel great. And very hungry,’ she added, almost dancing along beside him as they hurried down the hill to the town.
The transport café was packed, and full of steam and the smell of frying, and Rose loved every last thing about it. Sinclair exchanged greetings with some of the long-distance drivers who formed the majority of the clientele, seated Rose in a corner near the fogged window, then without consulting her went off to collect their meal.
‘Bacon sandwiches—the staff of life,’ he announced as he returned with the food.
Rose, who rarely ate any breakfast at all, fell on her sandwich ravenously. ‘That was fabulous.’ She sighed, as they drank strong tea afterwards. ‘But if I lost any ounces on the track I’ve put them all back on now.’
‘Is that why you run? To lose weight?’ The assessing grey eyes scanned her from head to toe.
‘No,’ said Rose with complete truth. ‘I just want to get fitter, release the endorphins and so on. Isn’t that supposed to help the brain to function?’
‘It does it for me,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s part of my training. I should really have given up rugby for my finals’ year, but the season will be over soon; then I’ll channel all my energies into the last push to the exams.’
‘No more running?’ she said involuntarily.
Sinclair regarded her in silence for a moment. ‘If I gave it up,’ he
