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her face. ‘If there’s one thing I don’t appreciate, it’s tramping in and out of stores. I wouldn’tknow about the spending money like water, having never had any, but I suspect I probably wouldn’t much like that either.’
    There was the sound of the car revving into action, which galvanised Callum into yanking open the door and, before his driver could say a word, she was mystified to see him spoken to in low undertones and then Callum was in the passenger seat and the car was gliding away into the night.
    Leaving her, she thought the following morning, facing yet another stressful encounter with a man whose image was proving to have superglue properties when it came to lodging in her head.
    Despite that, when, just as she was about to leave the house, her father called, she found herself reluctant to confide anything about Callum. It was the first time she had spoken to him since she’d arrived in England, and he’d had to go to the nearest town for use of a telephone. He told her everything that was happening on the compound, little titbits of gossip that made her smile, passed on a missing you message from Henri, and conjured up pictures of heat and jungle that seemed more than a lifetime away. In return, she told him what she had been up to, downplaying her own feelings of inadequacy at being thrown in at the deep end to cope with a situation for which nothing in her life had prepared her. She tried to make London sound exciting, because she knew that her father would worry himself sick if she did otherwise, but really when she thought about London the image became entangled with the image of Callum—whose presence she diluted, for her father’s benefit, into an annoying little man who wants me to sell the company.
    â€˜Don’t be bullied into doing anything you don’t want to do,’ her father said anxiously.
    â€˜Oh, I can take care of myself, Dad,’ Destiny said. ‘I’m not worried at all by Callum Ross.’ She conjured up a mental picture of his dark, powerful face, and said with a grin, ‘He’s really just a silly little chap who thinks he can get his own way.’
    â€˜Sounds an unpleasant type, my darling. Why don’t you let that Derek man take care of him?’
    â€˜Oh, I can handle the man myself,’ she said airily.
    â€˜Eat him up and spit him out,’ her father said with a smile in his voice, which was a compliment, she knew, but managed to reignite those niggling little ideas that had taken root in her mind ever since she had met Callum Ross. Little ideas that being fiercely independent and being able to take care of herself was all very well in the depths of Panama, but somehow out of place in a city where the interaction between the opposite sexes called for an appealing helplessness that she found difficult to muster. In fact, impossible.
    She hung up after fifteen minutes, feeling vaguely depressed. She looked in the mirror and saw an ill-dressed, unfeminine, overtall and utterly unsexy woman with hair chopped into no particular cut and a body too well toned by a life that had always involved physical exertion. She had no problem kayaking along treacherous rivers through dense undergrowth, but there were no treacherous rivers in the city of London and that particular talent was useless. She had no use for make-up in the steaming heat, but here her face felt naked. The clothes she had always worn, loose-fitting and functional, were fine on the compound, but she was fast realising that dressing sensibly to cope with heat and mosquitoes was good in the jungle but depressingly laughable in a city. Her hands, strong and hard-working, now seemed like hands a man should have and not a woman.
    Had she forgotten somewhere along the way that she was a woman? The thought made her even more dejected. She thought of her stepcousin with her beautifully manicured nails painted the pink of candy floss and felt graceless