by Liz Fielding
‘Wear something pretty,’ Nigel had advised. ‘And plenty of make-up. He can’t resist a pretty face. All you’ll have to do is use that winning smile of yours and you’ll be in.’ Well, Nigel had been wrong. It was true that she wasn’t wearing much make-up. It was too .warm. But the charcoal smudges on her lids emphasised the size of her large grey eyes; the mascara thickened and glossed the lashes. And she had taken infinite care to outline her lips and colour them.
She had no experience of photographing major celebrities and she had been determined to appear cool and professional. Clearly the white sleeveless jacket with its deep revers and the flirty navy and white spotted skirt had been a misjudgement in some way that totally eluded her. But it was too late to worry about that now.
‘I didn’t come here for your autograph, Mr Buchanan. I’m a photographer. I’m sorry if this is an awkward time. I would have telephoned to make an appointment,’ she rushed on, ‘but you aren’t listed—’
‘That,’ he informed her, ‘is because I don’t have a telephone. It’s supposed to be a strong hint that I have no wish to be disturbed by…casual callers.’
She was missing something. What on earth did he think she wanted? Then, with a shock, she knew. He thought she was some kind of literary groupie! It was awful. Off-the-scale embarrassment. She wanted to turn tail and run but she couldn’t. Now she had found him, she had to give it everything she had got. Remembering Nigel’s advice, she tried the smile. ‘Mr Buchanan,’ she surged on, before he could stop her or finally close the door on her. ‘You’ve made a mistake—’
‘It’s you who’s made the mistake, Miss Nash,’ he said harshly.
‘No,’ she protested hotly, determined to disabuse him of his mistaken notion. ‘Please listen. I simply want to take a photograph of you.’ He said nothing. He didn’t move. Not one muscle. It was utterly unnerving. She ran her tongue nervously over her lips as she fumbled in her bag for a card, any excuse to look away from those disturbing eyes. Her trembling fingers finally found what they were seeking and she held it out and eventually he took it, without taking his eyes from her face. ‘You see?’ she said, encouraging him to look at it. ‘I’m a professional photographer.’
If she had thought that this would clear up the misunderstanding, make everything better, she had been wrong. He didn’t even bother to look at her card, simply tore it in two and handed it back. ‘Goodbye, Miss Nash.’
A pin-prick of anger stirred the delicate hairs on the nape of her neck, darkened her fine grey eyes, but she wasn’t about to give up.
‘A friend of mine is writing an article about you… about your work,’ she rushed on quickly, before he could ask what kind of article. ‘I hoped to persuade you to let me take a simple portrait. It wouldn’t take long. Ten minutes. Less,’ she promised. ‘There’s no need to change. You look fine.’ Much more than fine. He presented a picture begging to be taken. His green T-shirt might be old, faded, but it was a perfect foil for his dark colouring, and the sleeves had been ripped from it, exposing strong, well-muscled arms and formidable shoulders; white tailored shorts displayed an equally powerful pair of tanned legs. He looked more like an athlete than a writer.
Still he didn’t move, apparently waiting for something more. She swallowed. ‘I would, of course, be prepared to pay…’ His eyes darkened slightly. ‘Whatever fee you…think fit.’
‘Anything?’ he asked, finally breaking the ominous silence.
‘Anything,’ she agreed recklessly, as he appeared to weaken. She wasn’t about to lose him for a few pounds. Then, realising how naïve she must have sounded, she added, ‘Within reason, of course.’
‘And if I was…unreasonable?’ Suddenly, without the necessity for words, she knew that this was not, had never been, a discussion about money. He had seen her reaction to him, misunderstood, thought she was actually prepared to go to bed with him to get what she wanted. Then, with a jolt, she realised that it was far worse than that. He believed that she wanted to go to bed with him.
Mesmerised by the idea, she remained rooted to the spot, quite unable simply to turn and walk away. Not because so much depended on getting him to sit for her. But because her legs had apparently turned to rubber. His mouth curled in a cruel parody of amusement as he made a move towards her, forcing her to look up or retreat. Sophie had no choice, and as she looked up he lifted his hand, touched the delicate hollow of her neck with the tip of one long finger, his brows lifting just a fraction as she felt the shock start through her body.
‘Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘Such flattering eagerness.’ Then, as his eyes held her fixed like a rabbit mesmerised by the headlights of an oncoming car, his finger traced the line of her breastbone with agonising slowness, until it came to rest against the white linen where it crossed between her breasts. Her lips parted on a sharp, anguished breath as her nipples tightened against the cloth.
‘Nice try, Miss Nash. But your friend should have warned you that I don’t talk to reporters or photographers. No matter how appealing the inducement.’
With a superhuman effort she raised her hand to slap away the fingers that lingered against the soft swell of her breast. ‘How dare you?’ she croaked.
‘Dare?’ He had ignored the slap, but now he withdrew his hand and she could breathe again. Just. ‘For my privacy I would dare a very great deal. I give you fair warning, Miss Sophie Nash, that if I find you anywhere near my home with a camera in your possession, you’ll discover that the dungeon is still a working feature. And that’s where you’ll remain until I decide otherwise.’
Now, lying in his bed, Sophie almost jumped again as she recalled the slam of the great front door. She knew she had to escape. Get away from this insufferable man as quickly as possible. A yawn caught her by surprise, and her lids, suddenly unbearably heavy, drifted shut. It was important. But she would just have a little sleep first.
CHAPTER THREE
SOPHIE woke, stretched, regarded her unconventional sleeping wear with a slight frown and pulled herself upright, wincing as the aches immediately re-established themselves, to confront a pair of dark, inquisitive eyes regarding her with open curiosity. The same dark eyes that had spotted the flash of her lens against the sun. They belonged to a boy of about five. or six years of age who was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He leaned forward a little, excitement barely contained. ‘What was it like?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘On the cliff.’ He flung an arm in that general direction.
‘Oh.’ She wondered what he expected. Breathless excitement and danger? The truth would probably be best. ‘It was hot and dusty,’ she offered, and hid a smile at his open scorn. ‘And very…frightening.’
‘I wouldn’t be frightened,’ he said, clearly dismissing her fears as something to be expected of a woman. ‘I’m going to climb it…one day. All the way.’
The thought made her feel suddenly queasy. ‘Well, make sure you take a rope,’ she advised.
‘You didn’t,’ he pointed out.
‘I was stupid. Your father had to rescue me.’
He regarded her with something like pity. ‘But you’re a girl.’
She could offer no argument to that. Male chauvinism lives, she thought, passed down from father to son. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tom! What are you doing in here?’ The boy scrambled off the bed guiltily. ‘I told you to leave Miss Nash alone.’
‘I didn’t wake her up, Papa. She did it all by herself. Didn’t you?’ He appealed to Sophie.
‘All by myself,’ she agreed. ‘He didn’t disturb me. Really.’
Chay Buchanan was not to be so easily placated. ‘Go and have your tea. Theresa is waiting for you.’
Tom gave her an uncertain little smile, bravado extinguished. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t be, Tom. Enjoy your tea.’ She watched the door close beind him with regret as she was forced instead to confro
nt his stony-faced father, who leaned towards her and grasped her arm.
‘What were you asking him?’ There was no mistaking the raw anger in his voice, his face, the way his fingers bit into the soft flesh.
‘I didn’t ask him anything. Despite your low opinion of me, I am not in the habit of interrogating children.’
‘You’re suggesting that such a thing would be beneath you?’ he demanded, disbelief stamped in every line of his face.
She glared at him. ‘I’m not suggesting it,’ she retorted coldly. ‘I’m telling it like it is.’ For a moment their eyes clashed.
‘So what were you. talking about?’ The fingers bit deeper and she tried not to wince visibly.
‘He…he asked me about the cliff.’
‘The cliff?’ He paled visibly. ‘What did he ask you?’ There was an urgency about him that intrigued her, despite her attempt to hold herself apart. He gave her a little shake. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘He just asked what it was like. I told him it was frightening and that I had been stupid…’
‘And?’
‘He took the view that I was feeble because I was a girl.’ She paused, then added, because she thought he should know, ‘He said he was going to climb it himself one day.’
‘Damn you,’ he said, through tight lips.
‘Frankly, Mr Buchanan, I don’t think it had anything to do with me. But perhaps some simple lessons in rock-climbing would be a wise precaution,’ she advised, with feeling. ‘Let him have a taste of the pain as well as the excitement.’
He swept his hand through a dark lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘No.’ A muscle was working furiously at his mouth. ‘He’s not going anywhere near that damned cliff.’ He glared down at her. ‘I don’t have to ask how you are,’ he snapped. ‘Obviously a great deal better.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. And some small devil prompted her to add a gentle, ‘Thank you for asking.’ It brought her a sharp look. ‘Quite well enough to leave.’
‘You’ll leave when it suits me, Miss Nash. In the meantime you’ll stay where you are until Paul has checked you over. Don’t say anything stupid to him,’ he warned.
Stupid? Like what? Help me, I’m being held prisoner ? She managed a sweetly insincere smile. ‘What could I say? You’re a hero. A positive saint—’
‘Stop it!’ She shrugged and subsided against the bed. He leaned over her and grasped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘Behave yourself, Sophie Nash. Or I’m warning you, you’ll never see your precious films again. Is that quite clear?’
Oh, wouldn’t it be utter bliss to tell him to take her films and go to hell with them? The temptation was almost overwhelming. But she would have to do the work again, at her own expense. And he didn’t only have her films. He had her camera. And there was Jennie. She hadn’t quite given up on the chance that she might yet snatch her films and run. ‘Quite clear,’ she said demurely.
For a moment he scrutinised her face, as if not quite believing in such a quick capitulation, and she forced herself to meet his disquieting gaze head-on and ignore the sudden quickening of her pulse, the intoxicating sense of her own fragility as she was confronted by the man’s almost barbaric magnetism.
Finally, he released her, but the imprint of his fingers remained burned into her face. She was breathless, her pulse jumping, not quite in control. Unlike her gaoler, who was regarding her without any trace of emotion to disturb his arrogant features. ‘You must be hungry,’ he said prosaically, as if to confirm her opinion. ‘When Paul’s finished with you, come downstairs for supper. Theresa’s made you some soup.’
She plucked at the shirt she was wearing. ‘Could I have some clothes?’
‘Not for the moment. Not until I’ve decided what to do with you.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘You seem to be pretty resourceful. I’m sure you’ll manage.’
A tap on the door interrupted the flash of annoyance that sparked her eyes, threatening to erupt and undo all her hard-won attempts to be civil to the man. Chay rose from the bed and admitted the slight figure of the doctor.
‘Don’t take her blood pressure, Paul,’ he warned as he turned to leave. ‘I have the feeling that it will blow your machine.’
But the doctor did not take the warning seriously. He checked her eyes, listened to her chest, took the dangerous blood pressure and declared it to be fine, delicately probed her shoulder and finally examined her hands.
‘Take it easy for a few days, Miss Nash,’ he finally advised her. ‘Get plenty of sleep and you will be fine.’ He rose. ‘I’ll look in again tomorrow, but I hope to find you outside, sitting in the shade.’ He paused. ‘And stay away from cliffs in future. Particularly that one.’
‘Why?’
Dr Paul Manduca regarded his patient thoughtfully. ‘Some questions, Miss Nash, are better not asked.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow. Good evening.’
Evening? This time she didn’t even bother to query the time. Chay Buchanan had invited her downstairs for supper. If she was hungry. By her somewhat unreliable reckoning it must be at least thirty hours since she had eaten an apple, something to do to break the boredom of the endless wait as she had hoped that Chay Buchanan would take a swim. She had eaten it with the thoughtlessness of someone who knew her next meal would only be an hour or two away. If she was hungry? She swung her legs from the bed. She was ravenous. But before she left this room she had to make herself decent.
She washed, used his comb to disentangle her hair painfully, then quite shamelessly helped herself to a fresh white shirt. Her fingers were hurting less and she made herself fasten all but the top two buttons. Then she tackled the bottom drawer. But there were no jeans. Just sweaters and shorts.
She held a pair of navy shorts against herself. Not bad. She pulled them on, but the minute she let go they fell about her ankles. She glared at them. She wasn’t about to be beaten by a pair of shorts. All she needed was something to hold them up with. A tie. She found the drawer with the socks and ties and quickly threaded one tie through the loops and knotted it firmly in place around her waist. Then she took another, rather beautiful silk tie in deep red and tied it over the shirt, grinning appreciatively at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She decided against the socks. She had the feeling they would rather spoil the effect.
She opened the bedroom door and jumped, confronted with the tower’s disturbing inhabitant. But she didn’t miss the glitter of a pair of vivid eyes as he absorbed her attempt at sartorial elegance, or the deepening of the lines etched into his cheeks.
‘You took so long, I thought that something must be wrong.’
‘Wrong? Whatever could be wrong, Mr Buchanan?’ she enquired smoothly. ‘I was simply taking my time deciding what to wear.’
‘It’s an interesting combination.’ He walked around her, inspecting the result of her raid on his wardrobe. ‘In fact, it’s oddly sexy.’ His eyes met her furious glance. ‘But I imagine it was your sex appeal, rather than your skill with a camera, that won you this particular assignment.’
Sex appeal? The idea was so alien that she was for once left without a reply. She had certainly taken Nigel’s advice and tried to look…tempting…when she had set out to persuade Chay Buchanan to let her take his photograph. That she might have succeeded was disturbing, especially as she was now quite at the mercy of her intended victim.
Sophie sat back and sighed with contentment after eating her fill of a thick vegetable soup in the style of minestrone, but with beans and pork added to it. ‘That was wonderful, Theresa,’ she said, and added two of the few Maltese words she had learned. ‘Grazzi, hafna.’ The middle-aged woman who kept house for Chay Buchanan beamed briefly, before turning on him to launch into a rapid speech in her native tongue. Then she flounced back into the kitchen with the dishes. Sophie watched her go and then turned to Chay. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.
Theresa is rather old-fashioned. She does not think it quite �
�proper” for a young lady to be wearing clothes that belong to a man. Especially a man she doesn’t know.’
Sophie, hunger assuaged by Theresa’s excellent cooking, was feeling considerably mellower. ‘I agree with her,’ she said, quite seriously, ‘but since the alternative was the sheet…’ She left the sentence unfinished, tucking away the knowledge that she might have an ally of sorts in Chay’s housekeeper.
For a moment his eyes lingered on the opening of his shirt at her throat and it took all her self-possession to restrain herself from clutching it together. After what seemed an eternity he raised his eyes to hers. There was nothing wrong with the sheet,’ he said.
‘You weren’t wearing it,’ she replied crisply. ‘And I think Theresa has been scandalised more than enough for one day.’ She thought his lips twitched slightly as he contemplated that fierce lady’s likely reaction to the sight of Sophie wrapped in a sheet that refused to stay put. Indignant that he should find amusement in her predicament she snapped, ‘You might as well let me have my own clothes, Mr Buchanan, since, as you took such gratification in pointing out, I’m not going anywhere without my films or my camera.’ She paused. ‘Assuming, of course, that you haven’t already done what you threatened and flung them into the sea.’ And she held her breath, half expecting him to say that he had.
But he didn’t. He didn’t mention them at all. ‘Theresa has made up the guest-room for you. You’ll find your clothes have been unpacked and put away.’ He stood up. ‘We’ll have coffee in the living-room,’ he said, taking her arm to help her to her feet.
‘What a pity she’s gone to so much trouble,’ she said, in an effort to provoke him, to ignore the warm touch of his fingers at her elbow, ‘I’ll only have to repack them all.’ He refused to rise. Common sense told her to leave it. But where Chay Buchanan was concerned she seemed to have no sense at all, common or otherwise. ‘And my camera bag?’ she demanded. ‘Is that all laid out and ready for me as well?’ Then she held her breath, waiting for him to explode. But he merely glanced down at her.
