But she wasn't used to being spoken to like that. `Me!' she retaliated. `Why, you grumpy old devil,' she charged of the mid-thirties looking man who still breathed fire and brimstone. `If you weren't so keen to be the centre of attention in your Aston Martin, you'd have been in the correct motorway lane, and not riding on my bumper…'

Oh, my word, he didn't like being called a grumpy old devil, did he-or any of the rest of it! `I was in the correct lane!' he snarled, his jaw jutting. `Not only did you not give the smallest indication of your intention to cross straight in front of me…'

'I haven't time to stand here all day bandying words with you!' she cut in arrogantly and saw his eyes narrow at her tone. Quite clearly, Mr-High-and-Mighty-Aston-Martin wasn't used to being spoken to in such a way. She saw him take a sharp intake of controlling breath.

Then, his jaw jutting no less furiously, he gritted, `I'll attend to you later,' and turned sharply away and went striding back to the rather superb-looking Aston Martin.

There was nothing he could possibly do, Yancie told herself ten minutes later. His 'I'll attend to you later' had no teeth. What could he do for goodness' sake? It was a cold day, but, thanks to an efficient car heater, she had shed her uniform jacket. She'd removed that identifying tag when she'd left Mr Clements, and had pinned a rather attractive brooch over the Addison Kirk logo on her shirt, so sucks boo! The only way he might be able to trace her was if he'd thought to note her car registration number-but, even then, that nearghastly accident was purely his word against hers-so he could take his `I'll attend to you later' and sling it. So why was she still trembling?