by Liz Fielding
How could he be so utterly heartless? Surely he must see that she was in agony? ‘Someone would have found my car,’ she gasped out.
‘Someone would have found your car?’ he repeated, in utter disbelief. “‘Here lie some bits and pieces of Sophie Nash. We know it was her because we found her car.” Some epitaph.’ Then the fact that silent tears were by now pouring down her face and on to his chest apparently penetrated, because he loosened his grasp of her hair and she almost whimpered with relief. But he hadn’t finished. ‘Let me tell you, girl, that you don’t have much of a career as a paparazzo ahead of you if you ignore the simplest safety precautions.’
‘I’m not a paparazzo,’ she protested.
‘You’re giving a very good impression of one. For God’s sake, is a photograph of me so valuable that it’s worth risking your life? Whoever commissioned you must have promised to pay you a very great deal of money.’ He frowned, then rolled over, pinning her against the rock-hard ground, crushing her breasts against his naked chest until she could hardly breathe. ‘Who was it, Sophie?’
Pay? He thought she would do this for money? Days trailing around holiday resorts at the crack of dawn when they were deserted, making the best of hotels so that they should look exotic and desirable holiday destinations, that was what she was paid for.
Her attempt to get a photograph of the great Chay Buchanan while she was on the island had not been for the vast sums paid to professional paparazzi. It had been for something infinitely more precious. For a moment she was tempted to tell him. Ask him… She met his eyes and hope died. Chay Buchanan hadn’t just turned her down when she had wanted to take his photograph. He had been…contemptuous. Anger, determination, sheer bloody-mindedness, had blinded her to the folly, the very real risk, of what she was doing.
She lay, too weak to move, her head thudding with pain from his maltreatment of her scalp. More likely the bang on your forehead, that know-it-all inner voice immediately contradicted her. She would have liked to touch the tender spot, check it out to assess the damage, but his weight fixed her to the spot and she lay quite helpless. She opened her lids to meet the angry onslaught of his eyes.
‘Well?’ he demanded.
She had been stupid. She knew it, was prepared to admit it. To herself. But she certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so. And she wasn’t going to tell him about Nigel. She had the feeling that Nigel wouldn’t like that at all.
‘I wanted a photograph of you to hang on my bedroom wall,’ she managed to snap out. ‘I’m a fan.’
For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his lips curved in a parody of a smile. ‘I don’t think so, Miss Nash. I believe it would take a great deal more than that to send you down that cliff.’
‘You’re too modest, Mr Buchanan. Besides, it was easy enough,’ she gasped, but the pain in her shoulder, her head, and torn and bleeding hands made a liar of her. Easy enough getting down.
‘Easy?’ he sneered. ‘If it had been easy you wouldn’t be lying here, you would be racing to Luqa airport now with your ill-gotten gains.’
She lay back against the hard rock. He was right, of course, and now he would take the films and she would have to tell Nigel she had failed, appeal to his sense of honour. A hollow little voice suggested that Nigel was not overburdened with the stuff. But Chay Buchanan mustn’t know how much it mattered.
‘I wasn’t in a hurry,’ she said, as if strolling up a rockface was an everyday occurrence. ‘I was…admiring the view,’ she added, with a slightly wobbly attempt at airiness.
‘You won’t admit it, will you?’ he replied, clearly infuriated by this unrepentant display of bravado. Then he eased himself away from her, letting his eyes trail insolently from a pair of clear grey eyes, by way of a very ordinary nose and a full, over-large mouth, to linger on a bosom that rose and fell far too rapidly. ‘But you’re right about one thing. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the view.’
Sophie felt the colour flood to her face as she realised just how vulnerable she was. Pinned to the ground by his body, she had made not the slightest effort to free herself. ‘How…how dare you?’ she blustered, attempting to fling herself away from him, but he had her effortlessly pinioned between a pair of powerful thighs.
‘Don’t go all shy on me, Sophie. This morning you were quite prepared to offer me anything I wanted for that photograph.’
‘That’s not true! Let me go!’ she demanded. Then, breathlessly, as his fingers brushed against her breast and the tip involuntarily tightened to his touch, she squeaked, ‘What are you doing?’ her grey eyes widening in alarm. ‘Stop it!’
‘You don’t really mean that, Sophie Nash,’ he said, knowing eyes dwelling momentarily on the tell-tale peaks thrusting against the thin white cotton of her shirt. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed. Sex is the obvious response to a brush with death. It’s simply nature’s prompting to ensure the perpetuation of the species. But I’m afraid that right now I have something else on my mind.’
He flipped open the button of her breast-pocket and removed the film she had stowed there for safety. Then, without haste, not deliberately touching her but making no effort to avoid the inevitable intimacy, he thoroughly searched the rest of her pockets, while she squirmed with embarrassment. ‘Just one roll?’ he said at last.
She swallowed, then, very slowly, she nodded. For a moment he stared at her and she held her breath, certain that he would challenge her, would see the blatant lie. But her cheeks were already flaming from the intimacy of his touch and apparently satisfied he stood up, pulling her to her feet and half supporting her as her legs refused to work properly. He propelled her back towards the edge of the cliff.
‘No!’ She tried to step back but he held her fast, and she was too frightened of falling to attempt to jerk free. ‘What…are you going to do?’ He didn’t answer, but took one gashed and bleeding hand, placed the spool of film into it and wrapped her stiff, rapidly swelling fingers around it. She glanced up at him uncertainly.
‘Throw it into the sea, Sophie Nash,’ he commanded, his words eerily echoing her own thoughts as she had perched on the ledge. But that had been before his hands had ransacked her pockets without a thought for her feelings. And his feelings? her over-active conscience prompted. But she was in no mood to listen to such stuff. He had no feelings. He was just a great big bully.
‘No!’ She defied him.
His hand gripped her arm more tightly. ‘Do as I say.’
‘No, damn you. I worked hard for those pictures. Do your own dirty work.’
That’s rich, coming from someone who spies on other people for a living. Throw it!’ For a long moment she outfaced him, chin high, eyes blazing. ‘Throw it!’ he demanded.
Slowly, almost against her will, she turned to stare down at the white sea boiling around the rocks. It was oddly hypnotic, almost mesmerising. She began to sway towards it, only to be snapped back by Chay with a fierce oath. With a faint moan she turned and buried her face in his chest, and for a moment he held her and she knew he had been right. She could so easily have fallen.
And he was right about something else. Held against the warmth of his chest, almost drowning in the scent of his skin, the sharp tang of sweat and sea-water so strong that she could almost taste the salt, she wanted him to pull her down to the ground and take her, right there in the open air, with the sound of the sea pounding in her ears. The knowledge was as brutal as a slap in the face.
Horrified by desire so raw she could practically taste it, she tore herself away from him on legs weak from more than the terror of falling. It was far more frightening than that. She had to get away from this man. As quickly as possible, and not just because of her appalling reaction to him. He had found one film but she-might still get away with the others. Might still snatch her moment of triumph.
She bent to pick up her bag, wincing as its weight bit into her fingers, staggering a little as the ground dipped and swayed. The feeling was
beginning to come back to her hands with a vengeance, the cuts and grazes stinging viciously and making her feel nauseous.
‘Nice try, Sophie. But I’ll have the film.’ He caught her wrist, turning her roughly, and for a moment she thought he had guessed. But he forced open her fingers, still curled tightly around the little cassette, and she cried out involuntarily. For a moment he stared at her hand, then with a sharp impatient movement he said, ‘You’d better come inside and clean these.’
‘I’m all right,’ she protested hoarsely. He hadn’t suspected. ‘I’ll go back to my hotel,’ she said quickly. Except that she’d already checked out. Her bags were in the car. She would be driving straight to the airport where she could clean up and change back into the pristine two-piece she had been wearing when she had called on him earlier. And, once she was inside the departure lounge, she would be beyond his reach.
‘You think you can drive in that state?’ he uttered in disbelief.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said desperately. All she wanted was to get to the car and sit down for a moment, until this sickening weakness passed. She paused. ‘I suppose I should thank you for saving me,’ she added, a little grudgingly.
‘Yes, you should,’ he ground out. ‘But we’re so far beyond the niceties of good manners that I’d prefer it if you didn’t bother.’
Hackles rose at his sharp, contemptuous tone. ‘I won’t! In fact, Mr Buchanan, you can rest assured that I won’t bother you ever again.’
‘I wish I could believe that, Sophie Nash. Why don’t I?’ His eyes fastened on the bag biting painfully into her shoulder, and before she could prevent him he had slipped it away from her and was hefting it thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I’d better keep this to be on the safe side.’
Her grey eyes widened in horror and she flung herself at him, making a grab for the bag. ‘No!’ she cried as he effortlessly whisked it out of her reach. Everything spun horribly from the sudden movement.
‘No?’ he enquired.
‘It’s just my camera. I can’t work without it.’
‘That is supposed to appeal to my better nature? Frankly, I can’t think of anything that would please me more.’
‘I doubt you have a better nature!’ she flung at him.
‘Then you are beginning to show some sense at last.’ He glanced at the bag. ‘This is just your camera? You went to a lot of trouble for just one roll of film. How long were you down on the ledge?’
‘Hours,’ she admitted. ‘But you were only there for a few minutes.’
‘True. But how long does it take with a motor-drive?’
‘Not long,’ she admitted. Then she took a gamble. ‘In fact there are about sixty exposed films in my bag. I’ve been working all week for a tour company, taking pictures for next year’s brochures.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’ he asked.
Her hands were beginning to throb horribly and she lifted them in a helpless little gesture. ‘Why not? It’s the truth.’ She swallowed as saliva began to flood her mouth. Another moment and she knew she would be sick. If only he would let her go so that she could just sit down for a minute. But he was relentless.
‘Come on, Sophie Nash. You can’t expect me to believe that you would risk all that work?’ he said incredulously.
‘Risk?’ Nothing was making much sense. She was the one who had been at risk.
‘You might have dropped your bag while you were climbing down.’
‘I…’ She blinked as he began to recede. ‘I was very careful.’ She took a step, but the ground seemed to be made of foam rubber. Surprised, she reached out a hand to steady herself and he caught it.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be…’ She lifted her hand to her head and saw the blood running down her fingers. Then, mercifully, everything went black.
CHAPTER TWO
SOPHIE woke with a throbbing head and dry mouth, every part of her aching. The room was dim, what light there was slanting through two pairs of louvred shutters closed on tall windows. She raised her wrist to see what time it was and heard a groan. It was a moment or two before she realised the sound had come from her own lips.
She stared at bruised, swollen fingers, that looked as if they might have been through a wringer, and winced. Her fingers. And memory began to rush back, a little confused, but with the basic facts intact. The slow motion nightmare as she had tried to make it to the cliff-top. And she had nearly made it. Would have made it. Only Chay Buchanan had been waiting for her.
She looked around her at the strange room and then with a rush of horror she knew. She was in the lion’s den. Worse. She groaned, and this time the response was quite deliberate. She was in the lion’s bed.
The thought was enough to drag her protesting body from the smooth linen sheet, but as she propped herself against the great carved bedhead and the sheet slipped from her body something else became startlingly obvious. She was naked. She gingerly grasped the sheet between her fingers and lifted it. Utterly naked. Someone had undressed her.
Who? It seemed vitally important that she remember. Then, rather hurriedly, she blotted out the thought before she did. She didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of her unconscious body being undressed by Chay Buchanan. Instead she focused her attention on her surroundings.
She was in a long, wide room, the stone walls painted matt white, with two large panels, glowing blue-green abstractions of the sea, the only decoration. The floor was of some dark polished wood. On it were laid rich Bukhara rugs, barred with faint stripes of light that filtered through louvred shutters closed over floor-to-ceiling windows. Apart from the bed, flanked by nighttables and a pair of tall Chinese lamps, the only furniture was an enormous chest of drawers with heavy brass handles and an equally impressive wardrobe. A man’s room. Completely devoid of any woman’s touch.
She rose unsteadily, dragged the sheet from the bed, clumsily wrapped it about her with fingers that refused to bend properly and staggered to the bathroom at the far end of the room. Halfway there she questioned her knowledge that it was a bathroom, but with the question came the all too shocking answer. She remembered. And blushed hot and painfully at the memory.
He had brought her here. She had been dimly aware of being carried up a wide staircase. Then he had propped her up and the sudden rush of water had brought her gasping back to life as he had stood with her in the enormous shower-stall, stripping her while the cascade of warm water had washed away dust and sweat and blood.
She tried to swallow, but her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth as she remembered how, too weak to stand unaided, she had simply leaned against him, her head against his shoulder, her breasts startlingly white against the dark tan of his chest. She had been incapable of protest as he had held her around the waist and briskly soaped her with a huge sponge, rinsed her, dried her and wrapped her in a soft white bathrobe and bathed her hands with antiseptic, his fingers gentle, even if the straight, hard lines of his mouth and his angry eyes had made his feelings more than plain.
The mirror alongside the bath reflected bright spots of colour that rouged her cheeks like patches on a rag doll’s face against the whiteness of her skin, the pale gold shock of hair. And he had threatened her with a dungeon. She had the unnerving feeling that his dungeon would be far safer than his bathroom.
But one question was answered. There was no Mrs Buchanan. No wife, however tolerant, would have put up with such goings on. She glanced around, and the lack of feminine accoutrements confirmed the fact that whoever usually shared Chay Buchanan’s king-sized bed she certainly wasn’t a permanent fixture. She forced herself to her feet and opened the bathroom cabinet. Not even constant enough to have left a toothbrush. She quickly closed the door. It was none of her business, she told herself firmly.
But it was too late to blot out the image of his personal toiletries, his exquisite taste in cologne, the fact that he used an
open razor.
‘Have you seen enough? Or do you want the guided tour?’
She spun round, then wished she hadn’t as the room lurched sickeningly. She leaned momentarily against the cool richness of Catalan tiles that decorated the wall. Then, as she followed the direction of his eyes, tugged desperately at the sheet, which had shifted alarmingly as she turned, a sudden coolness warned her that it had left her rear exposed. She edged sideways as she caught her reflection in the mirror alongside the bath. How on earth had she got that bruise on her shoulder? She lifted it slightly and the pain brought instant recall of the tearing jerk as he had hauled her over the edge of the cliff to safety.
‘I was looking for some painkillers,’ she said, with a brave attempt at dignified suffering.
His lip curled derisively. ‘Of course you were.’ He took her arm and led her firmly back to the bed. ‘Lie down and I’ll bring you something.’
‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘No, just a pain in the backside. But you’d better lie down before you fall down.’ She sat down abruptly on the bed, but only because her legs were so wobbly. It was nothing to do with his telling her to and she stubbornly refused the cool enticement of a down pillow.
‘If you’ll bring my clothes, I’ll stop being a pain in the—’ she started angrily, then stopped, gathered herself a little. She couldn’t afford to aggravate the man any further. ‘If you’ll bring my clothes, I’ll be happy to leave,’ she said, with exaggerated politeness.
‘Please?’ he suggested.
For a moment her large grey eyes snapped dangerously. ‘Do I have to beg for my own clothes?’ she demanded. He didn’t reply, merely waited. And waited. Apparently she did. ‘Please,’ she ground out through clenched teeth.
