“I did.”

“I was watching you from the moment you arrived.”

“You were talking to that bald chap from Defense Security over by the bench.”

“Well, I must say, you have excellent peripheral vision.”

“That’s what my sports master used to say. It’s why he stuck me in the center of the midfield.”

“You don’t really expect me to talk about football, do you?”

“When Rosamund rings her bell, we might have no choice.”

A slow smile broke across her face. “My God, I’ve missed you,” she said softly and quite unexpectedly.

The desire in her voice was palpable, almost painful to his ears.

“You’re breaking the rules,” said Max.

“Damn the rules.”

“You’re forgetting—you were the one who made the rules.”

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Max.”

“It’s the best I can come up with under the circumstances.”

“Now you’re being abstruse.” She handed him her empty glass. “Mix me another, will you?”

“Remind me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Bandits at one o’clock,” he said in a whisper.

He had spotted them approaching over her shoulder: Hugh with Trevor Kimberley’s dark and pretty wife in tow.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mitzi sighed volubly. “Another gin and French.”

Max took her glass. “So where’s Lionel? Out on patrol?”

Hugh was within earshot now. “Be careful, old chap. Asking questions like that can land a man in deep water.”

“Hello, Margaret,” said Max, ignoring him.

Margaret Kimberley nodded benignly and maybe a little drunkenly.

“I mean,” Hugh persisted, “why would you want to know the details of what our noble submariners are up to?”

“Besides, I’m hardly the person to ask,” said Mitzi. “Lionel doesn’t tell me anything. One day he’s gone, then one day he’s back; that’s all I know.”

“It’s all any of us needs to know.”

“Trevor tells me nothing,” chipped in Margaret.