âYou are at perfect liberty to go on disliking me if you wish, and you may disagree with me as much as you like.â
âIâve never saidâ¦â began Cressida. âErâno, not in so many words, but I am a lazy, thoughtless man who has to be reminded of his duty to his partners and has far too easy a lifeâ¦.â
âI neverâ¦â started Cressida once more, bristling with indignation even while she had to admit that was exactly what she had thought of himâbut not anymore. She looked him in the eye and said soberly, âYouâre quite right, I did think something like that, but I donât now. Youâve been super, working around the clock and never complaining. I daresay you only needed someone to remind youâ¦.â
He let out a tired roar of laughter and she asked snappily, âNow what have I said?â
âOh, my dear girl, youâre a dozen women rolled into one! Go to bed before I say something I shouldnât.â
She had got to her feet, but now she paused. âWhat?â
âNever mind whatâdisregard anything Iâve said. Iâm tired. Disregard this, too.â He had come around the table and caught her close. Even with a bristly chin his kiss was something to remember.
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Bettyâs first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.
CRESSIDA BINGLEY stood at the corner of narrow, dingy street in the heart of Amsterdam and knew that she was lostâtemporarily at least. She peered at the map she was holding without much success; the October afternoon was darkening, so that to study it was fruitless. She tried to remember in which direction she had walked from the Dam Square, but the city was built like a spiderâs web with canals for its threads, and she had wandered aimlessly, looking around her without noting her whereabouts. She bent her head and peered down once more, but the long, foreign names, only half seen in the gathering dusk, eluded her; she was frowning over them when someone spoke behind her and she almost dropped the map. Presumably she had been addressed in Dutch, for she hadnât understood a word. She sighed, for this was the third time that afternoon that a man had stopped and spoken to her; she had been polite with the first one, a little impatient with the second, but now she was vexed. She turned sharply and said in a cold voice, âI canât understand you, so do go way!â
Her voice died as she saw him; he towered over her own five feet eight inches by at least another eight inches. But it wasnât only his height, he was large, too, blocking her way, and even in the poor light she could see that he was handsome, with a nose which dominated his face, its flared nostrils giving it an air of arrogance. She couldnât see the colour of his eyes, but the brows above them were winged and as pale as his hair. He wasnât quite smiling, his mouth had a mocking quirk, that was all.
âEnglish,â he observed, âand telling me to go away when youâre lost.â His deep voice mocked her, just as his smile did, and it annoyed her.
âI am not lost,â she protested untruthfully. âI stopped to look at the mapâ¦there is no need for youâ¦â
A large, gloved hand took the map from her grasp and turned it right side up. âTry it that way,â he suggested, âand unless you are quite sure where you are, even in the dark, I suggest you put your pride in your pocket and let me show you the wayâit will be night in another ten minutes, and,â he added blandly, âthis isnât a part of Amsterdam which tourists frequentâcertainly not young women such as yourself, at any rate.â
She could hear the amusement behind the blandness and her annoyance sharpened even while she had to admit that she was lost. The street was empty too, and even if someone came along they might not understand her; she would be at a disadvantage. She said stiffly: âIf you would direct me to the Rembrandt PleinâI can find my way from there.â
He looked down at her, smiling quite openly now. âVery well. Go to the end of this street on your left, turn right and take the second turning on the rightâthereâs a narrow lane half way down which will bring you out into a small square which has five streets leading from itâtake the one with the tobacconistâs shop on the corner; youâll find the Rembrandt Plein at the end of it.â