earnestness about him that encouraged the baring of ravaged souls, and sometimes that in itself was enough to start a person on the road to recovery.
'And how exactly did you intend to pay for the supplies and medications?' Gavin asked.
'Out of my own pocket, to begin with. Then maybe I could ask some of the local merchants for donations.'
'You might get a bob or two,' he conceded grudgingly. 'I don't imagine having mange-ridden dogs hanging about outside one's shop draws in the customers. But say you can get this off the ground. What are you going to do once you form a relationship with these people, then they begin to show up here with a badly injured dog, or an animal with cancer?'
'I- I hadn't thought…'
Gavin shook his head. 'We can't cover catastrophic care, Bryony. We just survive as it is, with the increase in rents and your salary. There's no room for noble gestures.'
'I'll deal with that when I come to it,' she answered firmly. 'If nothing else, I can always offer them euthanasia.'
'And pay the cost out of your own pocket? You're too noble for your own good.' Gavin sighed with resignation as he finished the chart and stood. 'I suspected that the first time I saw you.'
Bryony smiled. 'But you hired me.'
'So I did, and I've not regretted it. You're a good vet, and good with the clients, too, which is damn near as important. But…'
'What?'
'It's just that we walk a fine line in this business between compassion and common sense, and I'd hate to see you cross it. It will eat you up, Bryony, this feeling of never being able to do enough. I've seen it happen to tougher vets than you. My advice is, you do the best job you can, then you go home, watch the telly, have a pint. You find some way to let it go.'
'Thanks, Gav. I'll keep that in mind. Promise.'
She mulled over his words as she walked the short distance from the clinic to her flat in Powis Square. Of course she knew where to draw the line; of course she realized she couldn't help every animal. But was she taking on more than she could manage, both emotionally and financially? And how much was she motivated by an unacknowledged desire to impress Marc Mitchell?
They'd become good friends in the past few months, she and Marc, often meeting for dinner or a coffee. But he'd never displayed what Bryony could really interpret as romantic intentions, and she thought she'd convinced herself that she didn't mind. Marc, unlike Gavin, had not learned to draw the line between work and home. His work was his life: Bryony suspected there was no room left for anything more demanding than friendship.
The pang of disappointment that thought caused her was so intense that she shied away from it. She just wanted to help the animals, that was all, and if it so happened that it brought her a bit closer to Marc, so be it.
Inspector Gemma James left the Notting Hill Police Station at six o'clock on the dot, an occurrence unusual enough to cause the desk sergeant to raise his eyebrows.
'What's up, guv?' he asked. 'Got a hot date?'
'As a matter of fact, I have,' she replied, grinning. 'And for once I'm determined not to be late.'
Kincaid had rung her from the Yard an hour ago and asked her to meet him at an address a few blocks from the station. He'd given her no explanation, only insisted that she be prompt, and that alone had been enough to arouse her curiosity. A superintendent leading Scotland Yard's murder inquiries, Duncan's schedule was as demanding as hers, if not more so, and they were both accustomed to working long hours.
Of course she had been trying to cut back, due to what Kincaid only half-teasingly referred to as her 'delicate condition,' but without much success. She had no intention of announcing her pregnancy to her superiors until she absolutely had to, and then she'd be even less inclined to beg off work.
And if an unplanned pregnancy weren't disastrous enough for the career prospects of a newly promoted detective inspector, Gemma suspected her unmarried state would garner even less favor with her superiors. At least when Toby had come along she'd been married to his dad.
Checking the address she'd scribbled on a scrap of paper, she walked down Ladbroke Grove until she reached St. John's Gardens, then turned left. The old church stood sentinel on the summit of Notting Hill, and even on such a dreary evening Gemma loved the calm of the place. But Kincaid's directions sent her onwards, down the hill to the west, and after a few blocks she began checking the house numbers.
She saw his MG first, its top buttoned up tight against the damp, and then across the street the address he had given her. It was the end house of a terrace, but faced on St. John's rather than the cross street. Porch light and street lamp illuminated dark brown brick set off by gleaming white trim, and a front door the vivid color of cherries. Through the trees that grew between the house and the pavement, she glimpsed a small balcony on the second floor.
Duncan opened the door before she could ring. 'What, are you clairvoyant?' she demanded, laughing, as he kissed her cheek.
'Among my many talents.' He took her damp jacket and hung it on an iron coat rack in the hall.
'What's this all about? Are we meeting someone here?'
'Not exactly,' he answered. His grin made her think of her four-year-old son concealing a surprise. 'Let's have a look round, shall we?'
The kitchen lay to the left, a cheerful, yellow room with a scrubbed pine table and a dark blue, oil-fired cooker. Gemma's heart contracted in a spasm of envy. It was perfect, just the sort of kitchen she had always longed for. She gave a lingering look back as Kincaid urged her into the hall.
The dining and sitting rooms had been opened into one long space with deep windows and French doors that Gemma presumed must lead to a garden. The dining furniture had an air of Provencal; in the sitting room, a comfortably worn sofa and two armchairs faced a gas fire, and bookcases climbed to the ceiling. In her imagination, she saw the shelves filled with books, the fire lit.
'Nice, yes?' Kincaid queried.
Gemma glanced up at him, her suspicions growing. 'Mmmm.'
Undeterred, he continued his tour. 'And here, tucked in behind the kitchen, a little loo.' When she had dutifully admired the facilities, he took her into the last room on the left, a small study or library. But there were no books on these shelves, just as there had been no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions or photographs in the dining and sitting area.
'I'd put the telly here, wouldn't you?' he went on cheerfully. 'So as not to spoil the atmosphere of the sitting room.'
Gemma turned to face him. ' Duncan, are you giving up policing for estate agenting? I'm not going a step further until you tell me what this is all about!'
'First, tell me if you like it, love. Do you think you could live here?'
'Of course I like it! But you know what property values are like in this area- there's no way we could afford something like this even if we pooled our salaries-'
'Just wait before you make a judgment. See the rest of the house.'
'But-'
'Trust me.'
Following him up the stairs to the first floor, she mulled over her situation. She must make a change, she knew that. The garage flat she rented was much too small for another child, and Kincaid's Hampstead flat was no more suitable- especially since it looked as though his twelve-year-old son would be moving in with him over the holidays.
Since she had told Kincaid about the baby, they had talked about living together, combining families, but Gemma had found herself unwilling to face the prospect of such momentous change just yet.
'Two good-sized bedrooms and a bath on this floor.' Kincaid was opening doors and turning on lights for her inspection. They were children's rooms, obviously, but again the walls bore pale patches where pictures and
