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please.’
    Theresa glared at him.
    Matt shifted. He fixed his eyes on hers. Her mascara had smudged, making her seem rather sluttish. Then again, Theresa was always a bit sluttish, even when she was dressed in her smartest clothes. It was one of the things he liked about her. ‘Say please.’
    She closed her eyes, locked in some internal struggle. ‘Matt—’
    ‘Say. Please.’ He lifted himself on to his elbows so that no part of him was touching her, save, perhaps, his feet. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly. ‘You have to ask.’
    ‘Matt, I just—’
    ‘Please.’
    Theresa wiggled her hips upwards, in a desperate attempt to meet his, but he moved out of reach. ‘Say it.’
    ‘Oh, you—’ She gasped as he lowered his head and ran his lips along her neck, her collarbone, his body still raised tantalisingly above her. She was enjoyably easy to fire up, easier than most to keep at a peak. Her eyes closed, and she began to moan. He could taste the sweat, a cool film on her skin. She had been like this for almost three-quarters of an hour. ‘Matt . . .’
    ‘Say it.’ His lips went to her ear, and his voice became a low rumble as he smelled the perfume of her hair, the muskier scents between them. How easy it would be to let go, to allow himself to give in to the sensation. But it was sweeter to keep some control.
    ‘Say it.’
    Theresa’s eyes half opened, and he saw that the fight had gone out of them. Her lips parted. ‘Please,’ she whispered. Then, grasping him, all pretence at decorum gone, ‘Oh – please. Please. Please .’
    Three-quarters of an hour . Matt glanced at his wristwatch. Then, in a fluid movement, he pushed himself backwards off the bed. ‘Christ, is that the time already?’ He scanned the floor for his jeans. ‘Sorry, babe. Got to be somewhere.’
    Theresa’s hair flopped over her face. ‘What? You can’t go!’
    ‘Where are my boots? I could have sworn I left them down here.’
    She stared at him in disbelief, her skin still flushed. ‘Matt! You can’t leave me like this!’
    ‘Ah. There they are.’ Matt shoved on his work boots, then pecked her on the cheek. ‘Gotta go. You can’t imagine how rude it would be if I was late.’
    ‘Late? Late for what? Matt!’
    He could have stretched it that extra two minutes. It was something few men seemed to understand. But sometimes there was more pleasure in knowing you could have something than actually having it. Matt grinned as he ran lightly down the stairs. He could hear her swearing all the way to the front door.
    The funeral of Samuel Frederick Pottisworth took place in the village church on an afternoon so black with glowering rainclouds that night might have come early. He had been the last of the Pottisworths. And as a result, or possibly because he was not the most dearly beloved of men, few people came. The McCarthy family, Mr Pottisworth’s doctor, health visitor and solicitor sat in the front pews, spread out a little, perhaps to make the long wooden seats seem busier than they were.
    A few rows back, mindful of his traditional position, Byron Firth, his dogs immobile at his feet, ignored the pointed glances and mutterings of the old women in the opposite pew. He was used to it. He had come to accept that there would be wary expressions and whispered asides whenever he had the apparent gall to appear in town, and he had learned long ago to turn to them a face of stone. Besides, he had more urgent matters to consider. As he left home he had overheard his sister on the telephone to her boyfriend, and he had a feeling that she was talking about moving herself and Lily on. He couldn’t afford the rent for their house alone, and there weren’t many people who were likely to want to share with him and the dogs. More importantly, with the old man gone, it looked like he was out of a job. The estate was paying his wages for now, but that wouldn’t last for ever. He flicked through the paper to see if any casual work was