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  The Adam’s apple below his determined, un-cleft chin bobbed slightly as he swallowed, and Rena’s eyes widened in honest surprise.

  He’s nervous, she thought — and nearly shook her head in astonishment. Ran Logan ... nervous? It was beyond her comprehension. How could he possibly be nervous in front of this audience, when he’d faced many far larger and more astute so many times in the past?

  ‘... so that’s going to be the procedure during the next ten weeks,’ he was saying. ‘I shall be doing everything in my power to make you write, and rewrite, and rewrite again. I shall criticise unmercifully and, some of you will say, unfairly. You won’t like me for it.’

  Too right, Rena thought. And me most of all, because I’ve got a head start. I already know about you being without mercy, without fairness.

  He was speaking again, this time discussing writing in general, but Rena didn’t listen. Her mind was two years in the past, reliving poignant memories, wallowing in pain ...

  They had first met at the small tavern where she had been singing three nights a week; Ran had been with another girl, but he had known a friend of a friend who was sitting alone at a corner table, drinking too much and obviously lost in the folk songs of Catherine Conley. Poor Dick had been a regular fan since a bust-up with his girl-friend, and Rena had allowed her compassion to express itself in her singing.

  When she made to leave him in the company of his new companions during her first break, Dick had noisily insisted on her joining them.

  And that was my first mistake, she thought. The first of many. Ran had been dressed that evening in casual but expensive clothing, a dark shirt open at the throat and darker trousers over gleaming boots. He had been polite and silently apologetic for Dick’s noisy behaviour, and before Rena’s next break he had hustled Dick out of the place.

  But on her next evening, he had come in alone, this time dressed for evening and stunningly handsome. She had looked up at his entrance and immediately been captured by those deep, dark-copper eyes. A casual, studied nod as he seated himself near the stage, but no invitation later, as she had half expected and been ready to refuse, for her to join him.

  That, she had decided, was surprising, although now she knew it for no more than the carefully-planned gambit it had really been.

  Of course she had known who he was. Impossible not to, with his face on television almost daily and his voice a common sound on radio each morning. He arrived again on her next singing night, making her wonder at the time if he had merely selected the tavern as a convenient place to drink without being bothered. Again, he merely nodded, but Rena had been conscious throughout her performance of his eyes upon her.

  Being stared at didn’t usually bother her. She knew she was attractive, couldn’t honestly discount the added attraction of clothing personally selected to match her performance.

  She was a folk singer. Not a great one, perhaps not even all that good, she often thought. But she had a rich, rather husky contralto voice and a genuine love for the historic songs she sang in addition to the ones she wrote herself and sometimes included.

  Not for her the grubby jeans and unwashed hair which many of her contemporaries favoured. Rena, as Catherine Conley, wore her dark hair short and close to her head, and her clothing, most of it made by herself, was inclined to the peasant necklines or Victorian fullness that suited her. Sometimes she even wore full- sleeved blouses and velvet jerkins, reminiscent of a female Robin Hood.

  The evening of Ran’s third visit marked the end of a long, arduous day in her regular job as a legal secretary, and that, combined with an unusually quiet and receptive crowd, set a melancholy mood which Rena matched with her music as best she could.

  Slow music, soft music, haunting melodies and tragic ballads; her speciality, really, but on that evening it all seemed unusually suitable. And throughout, Randall Logan’s coppery eyes, not aggressively undressing her, not even seeking her attention, really. But drinking her mood, somehow supporting her, like the shoulder of an old and trusted friend.

  It was an evening without thunderous applause, but that didn’t bother Rena. She could tell when her audience was really appreciating her efforts, and this was one such occasion, despite the almost haunting silence that met the end of her efforts.

  And somehow, when her first break came and Ran beckoned graciously towards the extra chair at his table, it had seemed so easy, so natural, to accept his invitation. They had talked little, and then about only innocuous subjects, but in his expert manner he had subtly drawn her out, finding out much about her without really offering a great deal of information about himself.

  He had been ... gallant, she had decided later, after he had driven her home and ventured his goodnight with nothing more aggressive than a continental touch of his lips on her fingertips. Gallant ... and so incredibly comfortable to be with.

  Gallant! Rena looked up from her reverie and blasted him with her eyes. Cunning was more like it, she told herself. Cunning and devious and sneaky and oh, so clever.

  She glanced round the room, for the first time bothering to evaluate her fellow students. No one noticed; they were all too entranced by their instructor’s words, it seemed.

  Not surprising. His voice rolled through the room like far-off thunder, soft, but oh, so powerful. Magnetic. To Rena, that voice had been one of Ran’s greatest attractions, from the very beginning. Even now it held elements of that initial hypnotic quality, not only for her but for the rest of the class.

  They were an unusual mixture, although perhaps not for a class of this type, she thought. A matched pair of students, both in jeans and T-shirts and thongs, a tall, older, grey-haired man who looked like a retired public servant; three women in their late thirties or early forties; and two women and a man in her own age group.

  The three older women all appeared to be married; at least they all wore rings on the appropriate fingers and two of them wore that almost indefinable look of a housewife-frump concealing an individual screaming for release. Of the two her own age, Rena judged one to be a serious, studious type, while the other seemed much more flamboyant and outgoing. The younger man, she judged, was about twenty-five, bearded, and apart from the motorcycle helmet beside his chair, not particularly noticeable at all.

  Rena wondered how Ran intended to organise his class. Unable to read, would he expect them to recite their work aloud? It seemed a bit much, even with his skilled and highly-trained journalist’s memory, to expect to evaluate material on only one hearing.

  Could this be why he appeared just that little bit nervous? Was he feeling somewhat out of his depth? Rena sniggered to herself; she hoped he was well and truly beyond his depth, so far beyond that he’d end up making a complete fool of himself.

  ‘... let’s get this show on the road,’ he was saying, his voice altered just enough to command instant attention even from Rena. ‘How many of you have ever written anything and actually sold it?’

  Silence. Ran nodded slowly and Rena guessed he had expected the lack of response. She herself had lied in her reply — or lack of it. Several of her songs had been published, both as lyrics to other musicians’ music and with her own music written for them.

  ‘How many have written anything and tried to sell it?’ he asked next. Three hands shot up, Rena’s among them, and after a moment’s silence there was a murmur of embarrassed giggles as each respondent realised what they had done.

  ‘Marvellously observant lot, aren’t you?’ Ran asked sarcastically. ‘Ever occur to any of you that you’ve just given me one reason you’re having trouble getting published?’

  Rena’s face was crimson with embarrassment, but she noticed the flamboyant girl her own age, a tall, lithe redhead, only looked angry at the rebuke. The serious-looking one, third among those who had replied so ludicrously, merely shook her close-cropped blonde head as if rebuking herself.

  The silence continued as Ran allowed his sarcasm to sink in, and when he finally spoke again it was in a voice
brimming with subdued bitterness.

  ‘Now that we’ve all had our little chuckle, perhaps one of you might be kind enough to tell me the answer,’ he snapped.

  ‘Three,’ replied the redhead with equal venom. ‘And I think you’re making a bit much of a perfectly reasonable mistake.’ She was, Rena decided, not amused.

  And neither was Ran, although to those others, not knowing him as she did, his gurgling chuckle must have sounded friendly enough. Had any of them appeared with him on one of his hard-hitting interview programmes, Rena knew, they’d have had sense enough to detect the warning note in that chuckle, like the shaking of a rattlesnake’s tail.

  Certainly the redhead didn’t realise it, Rena noticed. She had obviously taken the chuckle as a sign of friendliness and was even visibly preening at having been noticed.

  ‘A bit much,’ Ran said in a voice like silk. ‘Perhaps. But in future I’d suggest you only hold up your hand if you want to leave the room.’

  The class erupted in a chorus of snickers and giggles, none of them too friendly to the recipient of his barbed remark. And this time the redhead’s angry flush was obvious to all. She held her tongue, wisely, Rena thought, but the angry swishing of stocking-clad, shapely legs being crossed and recrossed was loud in the hollow silence of the room.

  ‘And how many of you have written anything at all?’ he asked, no sign on his face that he was aware of the redhead’s discomfort. The reply was a confusing chorus of ‘I’ and ‘Me’ mingled with laughter as two hands were raised in opposite corners, only to disappear as quickly as they’d gone up.

  Ran chuckled more loudly, this time, and Rena, knowing him, could tell he was honestly amused and not readying another barbed remark.

  ‘That’s nine .. . out of ten,’ she barked in the first bit of silence that occurred, then sat open-mouthed in surprise. Why did I do that? she wondered, even as he replied with a soft-spoken thank-you.

  ‘And are you one of the nine ... or the odd ... woman out?’ he asked in that sensuous, silky voice, that voice which still had the ability to send tendrils of desire spurting through her.

  Rena paused, confused by her physical reaction as much as by the question. Her mind seemed to have slipped into neutral, and she looked round the room almost in a panic, trying to remember if she had counted herself in the original tally or not.

  One of the three older women smiled understandingly and silently raised her hand, flashing bright eyes around the room as she urged the others to follow suit. The gestures were silent, but Rena felt positive Ran realised what was happening; he had that hint of a smirk on his lips.

  All hands were up except that of the redhead, who sat glaring, her eyes flashing from Rena to Ran and back again. It was as if she were daring Rena to count her falsely.

  Rena had to think; she was totally confused now, and yet surely the redhead had been one of the three to answer his earlier question? Yes!

  ‘Well?’ Ran’s voice was harsh now, slightly impatient. Obviously he felt the game had gone on long enough. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked testily. ‘Have you run out of fingers?’

  Rena gasped. What a horrible question for a man who couldn’t see! What if, by some chance, she were an amputee? Surely one already incapacitated — as he was — should know better than to risk such cruelty.

  ‘That was a thoughtless remark. What if you’d found she didn’t have enough fingers? Or don’t insults between cripples matter?’

  The redhead! And if Ran’s question had been sarcastically thoughtless, what of her own? Surely it had been coldly, deliberately hurtful.

  ‘If she had been crippled, I imagine she’d have been used to such thoughtless remarks,’ he replied slowly. And Rena could see the vein in his throat vibrating as he fought to keep his temper. ‘Cruelty from others is part of life for people who are incapacitated in one form or another,’ he said. ‘Still, 1 take your point and I apologise in hopes it will be accepted.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Rena, now anxious only to have it over. ‘And I must, as well. It seems the correct answer is ten out of ten.’

  There was silence then, a silence in which he seemed to look up, stare directly at her. She could feel his gaze despite her knowledge that he could not see. His nostrils flared; she almost imagined she could see his ears quivering.

  Rena shrank into her seat, eyes wide as she returned his stare. Could he see? Was this all some ghastly charade ...some evil, cruel game in which she was but a pawn? Suddenly she was terrified, but as quickly as the emotion struck her Ran turned away without a word or gesture to reveal his true intent.

  Perhaps, she thought, he had only been waiting for the redhead to apologise. That must have been it. He had perhaps appeared to be looking at Rena herself, but in reality his ear had been cocked towards where the redhead was sitting.

  She hoped! Meanwhile, her survival voice was once again screaming at her to get out, to flee before she found herself involved in something she would not, could not cope with.

  Ran now appeared merely thoughtful, but virtually everyone else in the room was staring pointedly at the redhead, who could not be oblivious to such attention.

  ‘Perhaps ... perhaps I should also apologise,’ the woman began. ‘It’s just that ... I ...’

  ‘I think it’s clear enough,’ Ran interrupted. ‘But don’t bother to apologise; you’ll likely think worse of me than that before this course is over.’

  His face betrayed no sign of it, but Rena knew. He was horribly, disturbingly bitter. And angry. Had the redhead’s criticism cut more deeply than even Rena herself had guessed? It was, she decided, just possible. She smiled, knowing he couldn’t see the smile. And an instant later she was equally glad he couldn’t see the guilt that wiped away the smile as if it had never been.

  She felt ashamed of herself, to laugh at another’s afflictions. No matter how much she knew he deserved that ... and worse, it would not be him she hurt by such thoughts but herself.

  Vengeance is such a petty, useless emotion, she thought. Even fulfilled it could not be satisfying, could provide no sense of completeness. Not for her. And yet ... she longed for some way to repay him for his betrayal, some way to make him suffer as she had. And to hell with fulfilment!

  ‘What we’ll do, I think, is something to ensure that each of you during the next week does some writing,’ said Ran. ‘Not too much, because I realise some of you might not be as quick as others. Is there anyone, by the way, who can’t type?’

  There was a moment’s silence before a single voice piped up. ‘I can’t ... not very well, anyway.’ One of the unisex couple. The female half, which Rena found rather surprising.

  Ran, of course, had no such visual assistance to his assessment. His reply was brutally swift and simple. ‘Learn!’

  And without waiting for any response, argumentative or otherwise, he reached out one long- fingered hand and drew his briefcase towards him.

  ‘I’d like you all to take five minutes now and just write down a few facts about yourselves,’ he said. ‘Nothing too complicated ... just name, age, marital status if it’s relevant, what you do for a living, what kind of writing you’ve done, or want to do, what interests you, sports, hobbies ... that sort of thing.’

  And one eyebrow cocked mischievously above the rim of his sunglasses before he continued, ‘Of course I don’t have to ask if you’ve all brought something to write with ... and on?’

  Again the silence, this time punctuated by a hiss from her boy-friend before the student piped up again.

  ‘I haven’t,’ she said, and Ran’s lip curled in ill-disguised scorn.

  ‘Then isn’t it handy that I have?’ he asked, drawing a pad of paper and several pencils from his case. His voice was brutally mocking.

  Strike two, thought Rena, and wondered idly if the girl would be returning the next week. Somehow she rather doubted it, unless young love could stand the wrath of Ran’s scorn and bitterness.

  She wrote quickly, yet cautiously: R
ena Everett, twenty-two, secretary, written some poetry, would like to try short stories, perhaps a novel. I like most forms of writing, especially science fantasy, thrillers, good old-fashioned murder mysteries, even romances.

  And she stopped. Ought she mention her song-writing? No ... definitely not. And her marital status, she determined, was none of his damned business. Then she looked down at her own handwriting — rounded, open, rather childish, she thought — and almost laughed.

  What was she writing anything for? She certainly wouldn’t be there next week anyway. The poor, embarrassed young girl student, busily scribbling away with her borrowed materials . . . she might return. But would Rena? It was beyond logic.

  She looked up to find Ran apparently looking at her once more, and so real was the illusion that Rena had to look away, shrinking into her seat so that she was partially hidden by the tall, older man seated ahead of her.

  I can’t possibly come back, she thought. It would be no more than ten weeks of blatant masochism. Torture.

  Ran reached into his briefcase again, this time emerging with a small cassette recorder which he turned over and over in his agile fingers as he waited for his ears to tell him the writing exercise was nearly finished. Finally, it was.

  ‘All right,’ he said then. ‘What I’d like now is for each of you to come up, one at a time if you please, and read what you’ve written on to this tape for me. And please don’t be shy; by next week I’ll be fairly good at matching names to voices, and before the course is over I’ll have no problems that way at all.’

  He paused, a smile ghosting across his lips. It was the kind of secret smile Rena remembered only too well. ‘I’m very good on voices,’ he said then, and he was looking at her!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rena couldn’t move. She could hardly, for that matter, so much as draw breath. Gone were the sounds of the other people in the room, drowned by the surging roar of her heartbeat as it echoed in her ears.