One could wish, but right now he needed to concentrate. He read avidly the article from a time-yellowed page of the Tavistock Clarion, realising very ...uickly this was exactly where Conan Doyle had poached the Baskerville legend, which in essence was: ‘…young pretty serving wench abducted by debauched drunken hunting party… escapes their lustful clutches by fleeing across the moor at night… pursued by the said mounted huntsmen, with pack of hounds trained with her scent… the unnamed woman never. Look, Mike. I’m going a little crazy here. You see I’ve had something of a crush on you since I first watched you swim in Athens and right now I’m doing my best not to jump up and down and say things like ‘golly’ and ‘gee whiz’. I guess what I’m trying to ask is…’ I took a deep breath. ‘…Why me? Out of all the women staying in this hotel, why did you come over to me?’ Mike was looking at me, vaguely amused. He grinned, one of the big beautiful grins that I had grown to love at the Olympics,. More

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