The sunshine, warm for October, reached through the unshuttered window on the first floor of the office in the Guardia Civil post in Llueso. It awoke Alvarez. As his mind reassembled, he was surprised he had been asleep; it was still Friday morning.

He watched the drift of dust in the sunshine. No one had interrupted his stolen sleep. Dolores was in a good mood and for supper the previous evening had cooked Calamares con anchoas en cocotte – rings of squid, olive oil, garlic, tomatoes, white wine, anchovies, seasoning. Delicious! Superior Chief Salas was on holiday, there was a lack of crime in the area, and the local government's proposal to increase the tax on alcohol had been defeated by members who understood a man who could not afford a coñac and a glass or two of wine was deprived of both contentment and any intention to vote for the existing government at the next election.

Life sometimes was generous.

Laura entered the bedroom. As she passed the bed on which her husband had lain, fresh tears ran down her cheeks. She went over to the picture window and stared out at the bay, sight blurred until she rubbed her eyes.

A motor cruiser – gin palace, Charles would have called her – was passing the face of the rock promontory, Roca Nesca, closer than was advisable. Charles would have shouted and waved his hands to tell the landlubber at the helm to alter course. Eos, Charles' ketch, maintained in prime condition, was moored alongside the landing stage. As she looked at her, her thoughts drifted ...

They had been sailing to Monte Carlo when they'd been caught in a sudden Mediterranean storm. 'Eos' sons having fun,' he'd called out as heavy spray and sheets of sea had lashed him at the helm. At his command – and in a boat, he was very much in command – she had taken shelter in the cabin. From there, she had watched as he eased them through the challenging water and understood he was excited, not scared; she had lost some of her own fear ...

There was a knock on the door. She called out.

Beatriz stepped in. 'Señora, I have cooked —'

'I don't want anything.'

'You must eat.'

'Not now.'

Beatriz tried to persuade her to eat the meal so carefully prepared. She wanted to shout 'shut up', remained silent, knowing Beatriz was trying to help in the only way in which she thought it right to do so.

Beatriz left. Laura looked out at the bay again. The motor cruiser was now heading east, away from Roca Nesca ...

The coffee machine in the nurses' room had malfunctioned for over a week and one attempt to mend it had failed. She had been mixing a cup of Nescafé when Frieda entered.

'I was hoping someone would be here because I forgot to buy another pot of instant. Don't mind lending me a spoonful, do you?' Frieda asked.

'Help yourself.'

'Heard the latest?' she asked as she picked up the jar.

'Depends what that is.'

'Charles Ashton and his wife have been brought in after a car crash; he should last, but she probably won't.'

'Who are they?'

'You live in another world ...! I've run out of sugar too. Do you mind?'

She wondered if Frieda ever bothered to buy coffee or sugar as she passed across a plastic container.

'He was a big noise in some company and retired with a huge bonus and a pension that would keep us in sable; there was a row about it in Parliament. Not that that lot have anything to shout about when they lead the lives of Riley with all the expenses' fiddling.'

On the second day after Charles' admission, she had been told to attend to his dressings. She had expected to meet a hawk-eyed man of an abrupt nature. He had been crying because he had just learned his wife had died despite every effort to keep her alive.

She could and should have done no more than speak words of condolence, but had learned the pain of tragedy. After saving for two years, her parents had flown to Malaya to visit the grave of her mother's father. The plane had crashed, killing passengers and crew. Her aunt and uncle had 'adopted' her. Their kindness had blunted her misery, not erased it. She sat on the bed and held Charles lightly against herself.

The sister had entered the room and, outraged by the breach of nursing/patient relationship, had angrily ordered Laura out of the room. Charles had contradicted her so sharply, she had momentarily stood there, bewildered, before she had hurried out.

He had discharged himself, against his surgeon's advice. He had asked that Laura return with him to his Chelsea home as his private nurse. He had been told that was impossible. Within a short time, it had become possible. That was her first practical understanding of the power of wealth and authority.

After several weeks, when he had recovered fully, she had said to him: 'I must return to the hospital or they'll have forgotten who I am and I'll be looking for another job.'

'I arranged they accept you back when you leave here.'

'Then I'll get in touch with them ...'

'You're in a hurry to get away?'

'It's not a question of what I want to do.'

'It's always just that question.'

She occasionally twitted him. 'You're very chairman and chief executive this morning.'

'Do you usually live with your parents?' She did not immediately understand the reason for his question. 'My parents were

lost in a plane crash.'

'A long time ago?'

'Not very. Is there something more you want?'

'For you to explain why you physically comforted me contrary to the cast-iron rule against emotional nursing.'

'Why d'you ask?'

'Answer my question first.'

The note of command in his voice annoyed her and she spoke aggressively. 'You were shocked and despairing because you'd learned that tragically your wife had died. I reckoned if I could bring you some relief with a hug, I'd do a lot more good than any condolences.'

'No other nurse would have considered such action.'

'You can't say that.'

'You imagined another, to help a stranger, would have dared brave authority's wrath and the probability of a damning accusation?'

'Yes.'

'You are a danger to yourself. Will you stay here?'

'No.'

'I am being ... What did you call me? So very chairman and chief executive?'

'I have to work.'

'Not if you marry me.'

In their weeks together, they had gained and enjoyed a strong friendship, but she did not read women's novels and see stars in a cloud-covered sky.

'Laura, when they told me Belinda had died, I wished I had died with her. You taught me there could be release from tragedy. Will you marry me?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

She had hurried out of the room. The next day, she had packed her bag and was carrying it out of the bedroom when a maid insisted on taking it from her. Downstairs, she'd gone into the sitting room to say goodbye to Charles. He had again proposed to her; she had again refused. He was not a man who found it easy to express his emotions, but he tried to make her understand that she would be offering him the love and affection he thought he had lost forever when his wife died.

She had tried to find a reason for refusal which he would accept. She lived with her uncle and aunt in a semi-detached house in suburban London. Their lives were of necessity economical. Once a year, they travelled to Italy on a package holiday. He owned houses in London,...