âItâs rather warm, but it will be cozy in the winter. Would you like a cup of coffee?â
Baron Tiele Raukema was leaning against the door, staring at her. âThank you, no. Youâve filled out very nicely, Becky.â
She was so surprised at this that she stared at him, her mouth open, and then said, âYou donât mean that Iâm getting fat?â
The horror in her voice made him laugh. âNo, only that youâre no longer a thin mouse.â
She had nothing to say to that. After a moment, she said, âIt as a lovely evening. I would like to thank you, Baron. Bertie and Pooch liked it, too.â
âAnd I, Becky? Do you think that I liked it?â
His voice was too silky for her liking, but she answered him seriously. âYes, you did, to begin with, and then I began to bore you, didnât I? The wine, you know. I am not used to it and it made me chatty. Iâm sorry it was a wasted evening for you.â
âYouâre wrong.â His voice was so mild that it did not sound like his at all. âI enjoyed every single moment of it, Becky.â He took a step forward and swept her to him with one great arm, kissed her hard and went away, leaving her standing there staring at the closed door.
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.
THE ROAD over the moors was lonely, its surface glistening from the drizzle which had been falling since first light. It was still very early; barely six oâclock, but already full daylight by reason of the time of yearâthe end of June, but as yet there was no sign of the clouds breaking, so that the magnificence of the scenery was a little marred by their uniform greyness.
There were no houses in sight and no cars, only a solitary figure marching briskly on the crown of the road, the thin figure of a girl, wrapped in a shabby old-fashioned raincoat, her hair tied in a sopping scarf. Marching beside her was a black retriever, no longer young, attached to a stout string, and tucked under the other arm was a plastic bag from the top of which protruded a catâs head. It was an ugly beast, made more so by its wetness and a battle-scarred ear, but it was quiet enough, taking no notice of the road but fixing its eyes on the girlâs face.
âWeâre free, my dears,â she told them in a rather breathy voice, because she was walking so quickly. âAt least, if we can get to Newcastle we are. The main roadâs only another mile; there may be a bus,â she added, more to reassure herself than the animals. âAnyway, they wonât find weâre gone for another two hours.â
The dog whimpered gently and she slowed her steps, and said: âSorry, Bertie.â Without the animals she could have got away much faster, but the thought hadnât even entered her head. They had been her solace for two years or more and she wasnât going to abandon them. She began to whistle; they were together and hopeful of the future; she had a pitifully small sum in her purse, the clothes she stood up in, by now very wet, and a comb in her pocketâthere had been no time for more; but she was free, and so were Bertie and Pooch. She whistled a little louder.
She intended to join the A696 north of Newcastle with the prospect of at least another six miles to go before she reached the city. She had been walking through moorland, magnificent country forming a small corner of the National Park, but very shortly it would be the main road and Newcastle at the end of it.
The main road, when she joined it presently, was surprisingly free from traffic and she supposed it was too early for a bus. She began to wonder what she would do when she got there and her courage faltered a little at the prospect of finding somewhere to spend the night, and most important, a job. And that shouldnât be too difficult, she told herself bracingly; she was a trained nurse, surely there was a hospital who would employ her and let her live inâwhich left Bertie and Pooch⦠And they would want references⦠She was so deep in thought that she didnât hear the big car slowing behind her and then stopping a few paces ahead. It was a large car, a silver- grey Rolls-Royce Corniche, and the man who got out of the driving seat was large too and very tall, with pepper and salt hair and very blue eyes in a handsome face. He waited until the trio had drawn abreast of him before he spoke. He said âgood morningâ with casual politeness and looked amused. âPerhaps I can give you a lift?â he offered, still casual, and waited quietly for his answer.