It was almost midnight on Sunday when I arrived home with the remnants of my hangover still knocking about inside my skull. I'd planned to leave London earlier, whereas Maddie hadn't wanted me to leave at all.

"You can have the sofa bed for as long as you need it. We don't mind, honestly."

"Lilac Cottage is my home now, Maddie. It's hard to explain, but I need to be there."

In the end, we'd compromised and she and Dave drove me back after dinner. Dave climbed out of his van carrying a tyre iron while Maddie brandished a can of hairspray.

"What are you going to do?" I asked. "Lacquer him into submission?"

She glanced down at her hand. "I could do. This is super-strong hold."

"Over here," Dave called. "The bastard's been at your front door."

The remains of a dozen eggs and a tin of red paint dripped down it. If Jackson Pollock had been involved, he'd have called it "Sunset over Olivia's life" and sold it for seven figures.

"The bastard probably had the red left over after doing my living room wall."

"How can you take this so calmly?" Maddie asked.

I waved an arm at the door. "Pah! This is nothing. It's like he hasn't even tried this time."

"You know I love you, right? Even if you are crazy."

I gave her a hug. "I know, and I love you too. Thanks for everything this weekend. It's helped just to talk about things."

"Don't ever keep a secret like this again, you hear me?"

"I won't, I promise."

Working on the theory that there was safety in numbers, the three of us checked inside for any evidence of unwelcome visitors. When we found nothing, Maddie insisted on waiting until I'd locked myself in before she and Dave set off home. She'd barely been gone five minutes when her first text arrived.

Maddie: Just checking you're okay?

The messages continued throughout the next day, on the hour, every hour. If I took more than two minutes to reply, I got a phone call.

"Are you still alive?"

"I was in the shower. Please tell me you're not going to keep this up all through the night?"

"You get eight hours' sleep."

"I'm rolling my eyes at you."

"Roll away. Eight hours."

Maddie kept her word. I got a message at eleven and another one at seven. I might have feigned irritation, but I did sleep easier knowing I now had four people looking out for me.

Warren had phoned on Sunday afternoon while I was still at Maddie's, and he'd promised to keep an ear out locally in case anyone mentioned the trouble at the cottage. Kids liked to brag, right? And Tate checked in just after nine on Monday morning.

Tate: How was your weekend?

Olivia: Great! Better than I thought it would be.

Mainly because I'd spent a good portion of it unconscious.

Tate: Any more problems at the cottage?

Olivia: Someone threw eggs and paint at the door, but that was it.

Tate: That's horrific! I'll arrange for a new door to be installed.

It was sweet of him to offer, but I didn't want to become his charity case. Nor did I fancy fanning the flames of the Olivia-is-a-gold-digger bonfire.

Olivia: That's very kind of you, but I've already scrubbed the worst of the mess off, and the door still works fine. How was golf?

Tate: Be sure to let me know if you change your mind. We had a couple of good games, but we hit turbulence on the flight to St. Andrews.

St. Andrews? I hadn't realised he was going that far. Edward had always liked to travel to far-flung places at the drop of a hat like that. How many more of his qualities did Tate share? If he enjoyed fine dining and going to the theatre, that would be lovely, just as long as he didn't have Edward's penchant for playing the field. I couldn't go through that again.

Olivia: Was Scotland cold?

Tate: Freezing. I've been looking forward to you warming me up. Are you free tonight?

How could a text message start my heart thumping?

Olivia: I'm around all day.

Tate: Pick you up at seven?

Olivia: I can't wait :)

I'd told a tiny white lie about my door, and I spent the morning cleaning up the mess. The eggs came off, but the paint was stuck fast. Rather than keep scrubbing, I ordered my own paint from the internet to go over the top of it—a lovely shade of dark purple to complement the name of the cottage. While I was at it, I bought a lighter shade for the window frames. They needed replacing really, but I didn't have the cash for that. Hopefully, they'd last another year with a coat of paint.

Then it was time for my post office run. I'd been avoiding the village as much as possible, but I couldn't get out of it today. I even considered cycling to Stonystead to avoid Betty's glower, but there was just too much to carry. Maybe if I had a rucksack or a bicycle basket, but neither had turned up in Aunt Ellie's stash. At least, not yet.

As it was, it took me two trips to take everything, which meant double the disapproving looks, and not only from Betty—the other customers in the queue stared and whispered behind their hands too.

As I cycled back, I reconsidered selling up. How much would Lilac Cottage fetch in its current state? Certainly not enough for me to buy a flat in London, and I didn't have the steady income required to get a mortgage. And even if I did decide to sell, who would want to view a house filled with tat? How about hiring a storage unit? Or...

I was so preoccupied with "get tidy, quick" schemes, I failed to see the man standing in front of Lilac Cottage until it was too late. Black leather jacket, black jeans, black helmet, black visor, and to top it all, he was standing next to a black motorcycle. The harbinger of freaking death had come to visit.

I skidded to a stop near the top of the driveway. Could I make a run for it? Pretend I'd taken a wrong turn?

Dammit—he'd seen me. He took a step in my direction as I pushed backwards. Should I speed off? I discounted that idea almost immediately—his engine versus my feet was hardly a fair contest.

Who was he? Had he been sent to warn me off? Or worse? A glance at my watch showed I still had thirty minutes until Maddie's next message, and my body could be going cold by then.

Oh, hell—now he'd taken his helmet off. I'd seen his face, and I'd watched enough thriller movies to understand what that meant. Was he going to kill me now?

I froze as he stalked towards me, and the bike clattered to the ground as my hands loosened their grip. Closer... Closer... He stopped two feet away and looked down from eight inches above.

"Olivia Porter?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

If I hadn't been so damn terrified, I might have found it sexy. What were the chances of him believing me if I said no?

Probably not good, considering we were both at my house. I gulped and nodded.

He held out a hand. "Nye Holmes."

I surreptitiously wiped my sweaty palm on my trouser leg before I put my hand into his. Hot, much like the rest of him. My skin sizzled, and for a moment, I forgot my own name.

"Uh, er, Olivia Porter. Oh. You already knew that."

He raised an eyebrow, expectant.

"Should I know you?"

"I thought Sophie told you I was coming?"

Sophie... The party... I sifted through vague memories. Sophie had mentioned a private investigator—Sherlock—but I'd imagined a middle-aged man in a deerstalker hat. Not...this.

"You're the detective?"

"Who else?"

"Sophie didn't confirm anything, just said she'd pass on my number so you could call me."

"Well, she told me your situation was desperate and I needed to get over here ASAP."

"But how did you know where I lived?"

His look of pity had me doubting my own intelligence. "I'm an investigator."

Way to go, Olivia. Make yourself look like a moron in front of the hot guy, twice.

"I think Sophie overreacted a little. It's nothing—just a couple of break-ins."

"And this?" Nye pointed at the front door.

"They didn't get in the house that time."

"What else?"

"A brick through my window. And someone punctured my bike tyres."

"That's not nothing."

The shakes set in, and I willed myself to grow a backbone. It didn't work.

"I don't know what to do," I whispered.

"Let's talk about this inside."

Nye picked up my bike with one hand and took my arm with the other, then led me to the front door. Guess I didn't get a choice in the matter. He stood close while I fumbled through my pockets for the key, but when I couldn't fit it into the lock, he made no effort to help, just watched as I demonstrated my remarkable lack of coordination. Finally, we got inside.

"Better go to the kitchen. I don't have anywhere else to sit." In all the stuff Aunt Ellie had bought, chairs were sorely lacking. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Milk, no sugar."

I fussed about, trying to keep my hands busy so Nye didn't see how much they were trembling. Teabag into cup, add milk, spill the sugar—dammit—wipe the mess up, add two spoonfuls to my own mug, add water, stir.

Nye watched me, silent, his eyes missing nothing. My skin prickled under his scrutiny, but I had nowhere else to go. The kitchen had never felt small until he sat in it. It wasn't just his physical size that filled it, although he was big. Rather, he dwarfed the room with his presence.

So this was how it felt to be stuck in a cage with a lion.

"Want to tell me what's been going on?" he asked.

Not really, but his question wasn't so much a question as an order.

"I'd only been living here for a few weeks when somebody broke in for the first time."

"Did they steal much?"

"I don't think they took anything, but there's so much junk here, I couldn't be sure. They just made a huge mess—broke things, strewed stuff around, emptied every bottle they could find, and smashed all the jars."

"That sounds more like kids than a career criminal."

"Which is what the police said, but there aren't many kids in the village. It's mostly retirees and commuters."

"What else? The message from Soph made it sound like a crazed mob was trying to kill you."

"Someone threw a brick through my living room window. I didn't know why at the time, but the next time they broke in, they left me a message."

"What kind of message?"

"It's probably best if you see for yourself."

I headed to the lounge for the first time since the night those words were written. Out of sight, out of mind, right?

Seeing the hate again brought all the horror back, and tea sloshed out of my mug as I stumbled. At least the stain wouldn't show on Aunt Ellie's ugly carpet.

"Easy, it's okay."

Nye took the mug from me gently and set it down on the coffee table. I was about to remind him to use a coaster when I saw all the other cup rings and decided against it.

He turned back to the wall. "Have you knowingly upset anybody since you've been here?"

"Everyone, it seems. Someone started rumours about me and they spread more quickly than pictures of Kim Kardashian's naked bottom. The village information network could give a bush fire a run for its money."

"What kind of rumours?"

"That I'm a gold-digger. That I only moved here to snag myself a rich man and take all his money."

"And is that true? Be honest with me."

I faced him square on with my hands on my hips. "How dare you even suggest that! No, it bloody is not. Yes, my ex-boyfriend was well off, and yes, my mother gave me endless lectures on marrying well, but that doesn't automatically mean I'm after cash."

"So, why would the locals think you are?"

What little fight I had left leached out of me and I sagged back against the wall, using it to hold myself up. "Because of Tate."

"And who's Tate?"

"I met him in the pub the evening of the first burglary. We got talking, and he suggested we might go out for lunch. I had no idea he was a rich lawyer."

"So did you go out with him?"

"I have been seeing him, yes. He's one of only..." I counted on my fingers. "Three people around here still talking to me."

"Interesting. So, would you say you've become dependent on him?"

"Not dependent, but he's been supportive. He understands that the rumours are just that: rumours. I couldn't have got through this without him. We were out together when the brick got thrown, and straight away, he arranged for the window to be fixed. I wouldn't even have known who to call."

"Well, at least you've had somebody looking out for you. Who are the others?"

"Others?"

"You mentioned three people."

"Warren, the local taxi driver, and the landlord of the pub in Stonystead. That's a village a few—"

"I know where it is."

Of course he did.

"And what's your relationship with Warren?"

"I don't have a relationship. He's given me lifts on occasion, and he asked me out for dinner once, but I declined."

"So you're a customer of his?"

"He's never charged me."

"When was the last time he offered you a ride?"

"He gave me a lift into town, maybe a week and a half ago. He said he was going anyway, but now I think about it, he was driving in the opposite direction when he first saw me."

"Have you seen him since?"

"Uh... Once, I think. I was on my bike, and he asked if I needed a lift instead, but I declined."

"So he knew you had the bike, then."

"You can't think... Not Warren, surely?"

Nye nodded to himself. "Let's go back to the kitchen."

He nudged between my shoulder blades to steer me in the right direction. Even when he took his hand away, the heat from his palm still seared into my skin. His touch was all I could think about when he sat down at the kitchen table and took a slim laptop out of his rucksack.

"I'm going to take some notes. I want you to start right at the beginning with your life in London and talk me through to the present. Don't leave anything out. Something must have triggered all this."

I took a seat next to him and leaned against the wooden back, trying to keep as much space between us as possible. The air seemed thicker than normal, and every breath was a struggle.

Only when I'd managed to get enough oxygen did I begin my story.