by Alison Kelly
‘But your mother was a model.’
‘Exactly. And I wouldn’t wish my childhood on any kid, much less my own.’
‘Why?’ The line of his mouth told her that he wasn’t going to respond. ‘Hey, c’mon, Flanagan,’ she said good-naturedly. ‘Don’t stop now; this is as close to a conversation as we’ve ever got!’
He burst out laughing. The sound was warm and genuine, without even a touch of cynicism.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘But let’s continue it on the road.’ He wrapped the remaining four doughnuts in a paper napkin.
Jacqui stood up and picked up her bag. ‘OK, but let’s grab some munchies from the vending machine before we go,’ she said, moving towards the furthest exit, where four confectionery dispensers were.
After fishing almost three dollars in coins out of her purse and feeding them into the machine, she turned to Flanagan and gave him her most beguiling smile. ‘Got any change?’
‘Sweet tooth, huh?’ He shook his head. ‘Not a good trait in a model.’
‘I’m one of the lucky ones; I don’t have a problem with my weight.’
He slid two fingers into the fob pocket of his jeans as he pointedly ran his gaze slowly over her. The combined action seemed incredibly sexy and sensually threatening. Jacqui took a step nearer the machine, trying desperately to concentrate on the various sweets and savoury crisps on offer while attempting to defuse the atmosphere with chatter.
‘Of course, I’ll never have the elfin-waif look that’s so hot on the British and European modelling scene at the moment,’ she prattled on, randomly punching numbers on the selection panel.
Peripherally she was aware of Flanagan inserting coins into the machine. He was so close that her denim-clad bottom was brushing against his denim-clad thighs, and she made the scientific breakthrough of recognising denim as a conductor of electricity!
‘Er—thanks…er—what’s your favourite?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I’d have to say the thigh-length-blonde-hair-with-plenty-of-curves look,’ he said, turning her to face him. ‘To hell with Euro fads.’
‘I—I meant,’ she stammered, her heart pounding, ‘what do you like to eat?’
‘The same, I think,’ he replied, moving closer. ‘But let’s check to be sure.’
His head started to lower and Jacqui was hypnotised by his approaching mouth. Oh, yes! Oh, no! For a moment desire warred with panic inside her, then his mouth closed over hers and the floor dropped away…
CHAPTER SIX
THE flavour of coffee and sugared doughnut lingering on Patric’s mouth and tongue was a thousand times more delicious than when she’d consumed the same only minutes earlier, and Jacqui’s response to the strange, new, unnameable hunger gripping her body was to part her lips and feed it. She did…and tasted heaven.
The sensations coursing through her body were both exciting and terrifying. Her blood felt as if it was vaporising and her balance was so disrupted that she felt as if she was tumbling off a cliff. Her hands clutched feverishly at the man responsible, but as the tempo of the kiss changed she relaxed, and her fingers slowly inched their way over the chambraycovered firmness of his chest.
Allowing herself to be guided solely by her body’s desire, she sought the role of aggressor, and when her tongue slipped deeper between Patric’s lips she wasn’t sure if the approving groan came from her throat or his. But the ribald remark that followed was definitely from a third party.
‘Gee, I thought there were laws against doing it in public!’
Jacqui pulled her head back so quickly that she bashed it against the machine, but under the gaze of the snickering spotty-faced youths embarrassment numbed her to any pain.
Slightly dazed, and afraid that the kiss rather than the knock to the head was the reason, she allowed herself to be propelled outside by Flanagan. Actually, given the grip he had on her forearm, ‘allowed’ wasn’t the right choice of word, and it seemed to Jacqui that they crossed the car park without her feet even touching the ground. Then again, she thought drily, she hadn’t exactly had her feet grounded when they were inside, either!
When he released her and unlocked the Land Rover Jacqui got in without speaking. He didn’t need to—the vicious way he slammed her door said volumes!
Head bent, she buckled her seatbelt with a concentration that would have done a heart-transplant surgeon proud, although, considering the way her hands were shaking, any patient she might have got near would have woken up in the morgue, not Post Op! Oh, great, Flanagan! she thought, rubbing her forehead. You’ve turned me into a crazy person! Even my mind is quaking!
She sighed. OK, it hadn’t been entirely his fault. She could have stopped the kiss. She could have pushed him away. And she would have, except that…except that—Oh, darn! She wanted to cry almost as much as she felt like screaming, which was ludicrous! For heaven’s sake, it had only been a kiss. A kiss wasn’t the end of the world. So why was she reacting as if it was?
She looked at her still trembling hands and sighed. Because, she admitted dejectedly, for the first time in her life she’d been confronted with raw desire.
Despite the heavily overcast sky she began rummaging through her bag for her sunglasses. She wasn’t taking any chances. Sometimes her eyes gave away too damn much, and the last thing she needed was to alert Flanagan to the fact that she’d been vulnerable to his kiss. She gritted her teeth. She didn’t want to think about the kiss, its cause, or her response to it any more. She wanted to ignore it. And she darn well would! As of now it was wiped from her brain!
Of course, the effects it had had on her body might take a little longer to subside…
Patric gunned the engine to life and swung back on to the expressway, not trusting himself to speak. He was so angry that he wanted to spit. How could he have done that? How could he have been so damn stupid as to have succumbed to his most basic instincts? What had happened to him that he’d suddenly started to keep his brains below his belt, huh? Geez, he’d acted like an oversexed sixteen-year-old. Worse!
He shot a look at his travelling companion; she was huddled up against the door with her back turned as much against him as her seatbelt would allow. The only way that she could have put any more distance between them would have been to climb out of the window.
Of course, back at the gas station she’d sure seemed more interested in reducing the distance between them than increasing it! And oh, Lord, he thought, remembering how her body had been pressed into his, heaven should feel that great!
He ran his tongue over his teeth and felt his body harden as he picked up the lingering taste of her. He muffled a groan. Where had she learned to kiss like that? As soon as he’d asked himself the question a picture of Phil Michelini flashed into his mind; jealousy knifed through him with a ferocity he’d have thought impossible.
Cursing, he grabbed a cassette, shoved it in the tape deck and turned the volume up, silently daring his passenger to complain. She didn’t.
For the next three plus hours, as soon as one tape finished Jacqui replaced it with another. Thus far Patric had made no objection to her choices, but then, since his collection consisted entirely of hardcore rock ‘n’ roll, it wasn’t as if she could pick a style he didn’t like. Actually his taste in music had surprised her a little; she’d have picked him as being more inclined towards what she called mainstream music.
Her stomach grumbled and she decided that if she put off speaking to him any longer she’d starve to death.
‘Can we stop and get some lunch soon?’ she asked, not looking at him.
‘What?’ He practically had to yell to be heard over George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers.
She leaned over and turned down the volume. ‘I said can we stop for lunch soon?’
‘Why?’
She gave him the scathing look he deserved. ‘Because I’m hungry.’
He sighed. ‘Look, we’ll be there in another hour or so. Can’t you wait until then?’
‘No, I can’t wait.’
‘Well, eat some of those crisps and stuff you bought.’
‘I can’t.’
He looked at her. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I left them in the machine.’
‘How did you do a stupid—?’ He aborted the question as the answer dawned simultaneously with a look from Jacqui which would, he suspected, have killed a more sensitive man. ‘OK. OK. We’ll stop at the first place that looks like it sells food.’
‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly.
‘But we eat in the car,’ he said. ‘I want to make the hotel where we’re staying early enough to unpack the car and check out the locations I’ve got in mind.’
Considering the rain, which fluctuated between steady and torrential every twenty or so minutes, Jacqui didn’t like his chances, but she didn’t say so. And, as they swung off the Pacific Highway in the direction of Wauchope, she couldn’t help thinking that they’d both have been a whole lot better off if Patric had chosen a naval navigator to pose for him.
In the wake of their verbal exchange and the lower volume of the music, the atmosphere in the car began to take on the consistency of marshmallow. Jacqui tried to pretend interest in the rain-soaked countryside, but it didn’t help. She hated his obviously civil silence—it was too forced, too plastic, too…awkward. And, for heaven’s sake, they had to work together! What was he going to do for the next three weeks— give her directions in letters?
‘Don’t you think it’s about time you quit pouting?’
Jacqui started at the sound of his voice, then sighed heavily. Great, she thought, nothing like starting an assignment all wound up! Of course, working with Flanagan she’d probably end up with her nerves stretched tighter than the Centre Court’s net at Wimbledon.
‘I’m not pouting, Flanagan. I never pout.’
‘All models pout. It’s second nature to them.’ His tone was one of absolute knowledge and disapproval.
She turned in the seat to glare at him. ‘You know what your biggest problem is, Flanagan?’
‘I should—I’m sitting next to it,’ he said drily. ‘But no doubt you’ll recognise it as something else.’
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Your problem is that you think you know everything there is to know about models because your mother was one and your father spent his life photographing them. You—’
‘Let’s not forget bedding them,’ he interrupted. ‘The old man was no slouch at that either.’
‘So what?’ she demanded. ‘There’s no need to keep going on about it, is there? Or—’ she raised a knowing eyebrow ‘—is that what bothers you—fear that you won’t be able to compete with him on that level?’ she sneered.
He shot her a furious look. ‘I told you my interest in models is strictly professional!’
‘You couldn’t prove it by me!’ she countered, immediately wishing that she hadn’t.
‘Wrong, lady! That’s exactly how I will prove it!’ He jammed on the brakes and killed the ignition. ‘You can bet what happened this morning won’t be repeated.’
‘Too right it won’t!’ she agreed.
‘But, just for the record,’ he said, moving to catch her chin with his hand, ‘if your ten-year relationship with my father was as platonic as you make out—’ his eyes moved to her mouth as he gently brushed his thumb over her bottom lip ‘—then I’m already setting a much faster pace than Wade did.’
He withdrew his hand, but his touch lingered, permeating deep inside her. She was incapable of looking away. She swallowed hard, her body warming under the intensity of his gaze. Never had she wanted so badly to be touched.
He muttered under his breath and ran a weary hand through his hair. ‘OK, what do you want?’
She blinked. ‘Wh-what do I want?’ Her voice scarcely registered as a whisper.
He gave her a look of utter frustration. ‘A burger, sandwich—what?’
He pointed towards the side of the road. Only then was she aware that they had stopped outside a small general store, advertising hot take-away food. Silently calling herself every kind of idiot, she fumbled first for her handbag and then with the seatbelt.
‘No.’ The touch of his hand against her shoulder lasted only a second, but its effect sizzled through her blood for much longer. ‘Just tell me what you want and I’ll get it. It’s pouring out there; no point in us both getting drenched.’
The rain was about as close to a cold shower as she could get right now and, brother, did she need to cool off! She thought about arguing the point with him, but decided against it; even professional fighters took a break between bouts.
‘Er—thanks,’ she mumbled, looking everywhere but at him. ‘Um—I’ll have a hamburger with cheese and bacon, and a chocolate milkshake.’
Still avoiding eye contact, she held a five-dollar note out to him.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said, reaching for the doorhandle.
‘What’s this?’ she asked, curiously lifting her head. ‘Another peace offering?’
He shrugged noncommittally. ‘Something like that.’
She offered a tentative smile. ‘Flanagan, if you’re going to buy me food every time we argue, I’ll end up looking like the side of a house.’
‘Hmm!’ he grunted. ‘More likely I’ll end up flat broke!’
Watching him dart through the rain to the shop, Jacqui doubted whether he even knew the meaning of the word. Guys who wore genuine Rolexes rarely did.
The final stage of the trip was short and passed peacefully— only, Patric decided, because his travelling companion had been too busy feeding her face to speak. But all good things had to end, and as he stopped outside their destination words tumbled from Jacqui’s lips.
‘This is where we’re staying?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘It’s been restored since I came up here on vacation a few years back.’
She turned from her perusal of the hotel to him, her blue eyes wide. ‘You came here for a vacation? From Canada?’
‘Well, it was a kind of working holiday,’ he qualified. ‘I already had the idea for a shoot of out-of-the-way Australian beauty spots, so I started to scout out a few whenever the chance arose. This area was perfect.’
‘Well, it’s certainly out of the way.’ She cast another apprehensive look at the hotel.
Patric didn’t know why her reaction made him angry— he’d expected it—but it did.
‘Just be grateful you aren’t staying in a tent!’ he snapped. ‘This situation could be a lot worse, believe me.’
‘Only if you tell me you have a twin brother who’s meeting us here.’
The sarcasm in her tone triggered thoughts of murder in his head, while her lipstick-free lips ignited sensations of passion in him from the neck down. To quell the temptation to haul her into his arms and kiss her senseless, he concentrated on the lesser of the two evils—homicide.
Given the fact that this woman would have tried the patience of a celibate saint, let alone a mortal male, he figured a male jury would return a verdict of justifiable homicide. Of course, the way his luck was going, he’d end up with a jury of hardcore feminists—or, worse, models! Swell, just what he needed—more models!
He gripped the steering wheel. ‘Jacqui,’ he muttered through clenched teeth, ‘get out and start checking in while I unload our gear.’
‘Rest assured, you’ll get clean rooms and good, no-frills meals in the dining-rooms, but this isn’t like them city hotels, Ms Raynor,’ advised the buxom, middle-aged woman who’d finally responded to the reception bell which Jacqui had rung a dozen times. ‘There’s no room service, and if you want to make a phone call you’ll have to use one of the public phones. There’s one in the main bar and another in the dining-room.’
Under the woman’s penetrating gaze Jacqui felt obliged to respond. ‘I…er—that’s fine.’ Her smile was ignored and the lecture—at least, that was what it seemed like—continued.
‘There’s eight rooms and f
our bathrooms. Usually you’d have to share a bathroom with the occupants of one of the other rooms, but we only have one other guest at the moment so you won’t have to worry.’ She paused and glared over Jacqui’s shoulder.
Following the woman’s gaze, Jacqui turned to the doorway, which was now almost totally blocked by Flanagan. He held a suitcase in each hand, a duffle bag under each arm and a third over one shoulder. Any other man would have looked clumsy and overloaded carrying so much, but Flanagan moved into the room with his usual ease and grace and systematically lowered each item to the floor.
‘Afternoon, I’m Patric Flanagan.’ His outstretched hand was ignored.
‘You didn’t request two rooms when you phoned, Mr Flanagan,’ she accused him in the tone of a teacher to a particularly wayward student.
‘That’s because I wasn’t originally expecting to need two,’ he explained reasonably. ‘I’m sorry, it slipped my mind to notify you about the second. Is that a problem?’
‘Fortunately for you, Mr Flanagan, we aren’t heavily booked at the moment, but, as I said to Ms Raynor here, we could have been.’
‘Guess we’re lucky we didn’t arrive here at the same time as you had an international conference going on, huh?’ The smile he flashed had probably managed to worm him into the good books of granite-hearted women before today, but Jacqui almost cheered as the formidable hotelier simply gave him a droll look.
‘Will you be paying for both rooms, Mr Flanagan?’ she went on. ‘Or should I have separate accounts?’
‘Charge everything to me.’
‘May I see some identification, please?’
‘These do?’ He presented his driver’s licence and credit card to her.
A gold card, Jacqui noted. But if the woman was impressed it wasn’t enough to make her tone any friendlier.
‘The dining-room is open between six-thirty and eightthirty. Bar closes at eleven every night except Sundays, when we shut at ten.’ She lifted overly pencilled eyebrows. ‘And if you have any complaints—’
