Dangerous Ground (Harlequin Presents, December 118)

by Alison Kelly

  ‘You rat! I told you no candid shots and I meant it!’ Her outrage only made him laugh and he stepped back, accomplishing another two shots in the process. ‘Your face is so expressive! I love it—’ His fingers stilled on the camera only milliseconds before the entire world froze around them.

  Afraid he’d hear the pounding of her heart in the stillness, Jacqui heaved in a less than steady breath and rushed into speech. ‘Try that again, Flanagan, and you’ll find my vocabulary’s very expressive too!’

  He grinned. ‘I imagine it must be if you spent your tender years hanging around pool halls. What’s the story? I had you pegged as a well-brought-up private-school girl, from a cashed-up blue-blood family.’

  She burst out laughing. The reality of her childhood was so removed from what he perceived it to have been that she wasn’t sure if the tears in her eyes sprang from regret or mirth. Immediately she tugged the peak of her baseball cap further over her face; it was OK for her to question her reaction, but she didn’t want him doing it.

  ‘A joke that funny should be shared,’ he said.

  She blinked until her vision cleared, then shook her head. ‘I think it would lose a lot in the telling.’

  ‘Why not tell me over lunch and let me decide?’

  The tone of his voice and the way he was looking at her told her that interest rather than curiosity had prompted the request, and ten minutes later she sat cross-legged on a blanket, sharing not just cold chicken and salad with him, but a large chunk of herself.

  ‘I grew up in Dulwich Hill, Sydney. My folks came to Australia from Poland in the fifties. They were both only seventeen, with very little money and about as much education. Dad worked for a few years with the railways, then was lured to the Snowy Mountains to work on the Hydro-Electric Scheme in the hope of better money.’

  ‘A lot of immigrants worked there—my Irish godfather included.’ He smiled. ‘And we’re both first-generation Australians; seems like we’ve found some of that common ground we talked about the other day.’

  They both knew that it was what he’d called ‘dangerous ground’ which had dominated their conversation five days ago, and that it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore. She could tell by his eyes that he was waiting for her to contradict him.

  She pursed her mouth, knowing that to retaliate would be to open a Pandora’s box. It was amusing to know that she could read him so easily, but her arrogance evaporated when the notion that he might be equally attuned to her thoughts burned into her brain.

  ‘Our backgrounds are light-years apart, Flanagan,’ she said, determined to respond only to what he’d actually said.

  ‘You don’t know mine well enough to know that.’

  ‘Your father told me enough about his life for me to know you didn’t grow up with parents who had to scrimp and save to make ends meet. And no son of Wade’s would have attended an overcrowded state school or worn hand-me-down uniforms.’ She grinned. ‘And I’m damn certain you didn’t cut school in—’

  ‘No chance,’ he broke in. ‘I went to boarding-school.’

  ‘Wade sent you to boarding-school that young?’ She was appalled that any parent would do such a thing.

  ‘I’m talking about high school,’ he stated, then frowned. ‘Aren’t you?’ She shook her head. ‘You mean you played truant when you were only in primary school?’

  ‘Yep. By high school I was averaging at least two days AWOL out of every five!’ She laughed at his open-mouthed horror. ‘How else was I going to learn to play pool?’

  ‘God, Jacqui! What was wrong with your parents?’

  ‘Nothing!’ she snapped. ‘They sent me to school; I just didn’t go. It’s not like they could handcuff me to a desk! Why do people always blame the parents when a kid bucks the system? School bored me. I hated it and got out as soon as I was old enough!’

  ‘But…but you’re so bright, so—’

  ‘Yeah, right. That’s what all my teachers said, and Lord knows how many social workers! But back then there weren’t programmes like the ones they have these days for gifted and talented kids. Nobody knew what to do with me. It was OK for my older sister, Caro; she was comfortable being a perfect straight A student but I wasn’t.

  ‘When she and Mum heard about the teenage cover-girl contest, they figured it would be the best way to get me out of both school and the crowd I was hanging around with.’

  Patric leaned back on his elbows. ‘And did it?’

  ‘Eventually.’ She laughed. ‘But the upshot of the whole thing was that Caro fell for one of the bikers I was hanging around with.’

  ‘You ran with a bike gang?’ He stared at her with disbelief. ‘You’re making this up, right?’

  ‘They weren’t exactly a bike gang in the true sense of the word,’ she admitted. ‘But they weren’t choirboys either.’ A flood of memories brought a smile to her mouth. ‘It all seems a billion years ago,’ she said wistfully. ‘Every one of them is probably a fine, upstanding citizen now, with kids of his own.’

  She was silent for a few minutes as, one after another, faces from her past were projected on to her mind. She sighed. ‘I thought about having a huge reunion party a few years ago, but decided against it.’

  ‘Considering what a headline like RISQUE GIRL EX-BIKER MOLL would have done to your career, I’m not surprised.’

  Jacqui spun her head round to face him. ‘I didn’t scrap the idea of a reunion because I thought it would hurt my modelling career!’ she said hotly. ‘I was worried that the old crowd would think I was doing it all for pose value. You know—showing off.’

  ‘You continue to surprise me,’ he said. ‘First I discover you were immune to my father’s charms—’

  She opened her mouth, intending to defend Wade, but he continued before she could get a word out.

  ‘Then you turn out to be just three breaks short of a professional pool hustler—’

  Jacqui couldn’t help laughing at his phrasing.

  ‘And now you tell me that not only were you a rebellious, wilful brat but that you knocked around with the type of guys most people cross the street to avoid—’

  ‘They weren’t that bad.’

  ‘And, to top it all off, you worry about them being offended by your success.’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t fit the archetype of a model.’

  ‘That’s because there isn’t one. Contrary to what you believe, models aren’t simply one huge commodity. Modelling is something we do, not who we are.’

  His eyes flashed scepticism. He opened his mouth then shut it, as if thinking better of what he’d been about to say. But Jacqui wanted to know.

  ‘What?’ she prompted.

  ‘Forget it. Let’s—’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘OK,’ he agreed. He narrowed those intense brown eyes of his on her. ‘Why did you decide to take this assignment?’

  If she’d thought for one moment that telling him about her father would have made him offer to tear up the contract they’d signed and let her out of the deal, she would have. But Patric Flanagan was his father’s son and, as such, he’d hardly be likely to let sentiment or nobility stand in the way of a business deal. Her problems were her own and nobody else’s, and she intended to keep them that way.

  ‘I had my reasons,’ she said finally.

  He gave her a disappointed look. ‘Not good enough, Jacqui. You insisted on my asking you the question; I insist on an honest answer.’

  ‘I wasn’t happy with the conditions of the Risque deal.’ Now, there was an understatement. ‘I might have grown up on the wrong side of the tracks but I know my own worth.’

  ‘Not enough money, huh?’

  She disguised a shudder at the thought of Dickson Wagner’s disgusting proposition with a derisive laugh. ‘Not nearly enough!’

  He studied her in silence for several moments, then stood up and started packing up their lunch things.

  ‘Wrong side of the tracks or otherwise, Ja
cqui, you sure learned your trade well. Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You’re a model all right. Through and through.’

  His tone moulded the words of praise into an insult.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, when she remained sitting. ‘Lunchbreak’s over!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BY THE end of the afternoon Patric had selected the two sites where he wanted to photograph Jacqui the next day. One was a small clump of rocks in the middle of the creek, and the other was a vast expanse of land covered only with long, sun-bleached grass. Which was a damned sight more than she’d have covering her! Jacqui thought as they pulled into the hotel car park.

  The butterflies in her stomach had long fled—chased away by the dinosaurs which currently resided there. She glanced across at the man beside her. Perhaps if she threw up all over him she could convince him that she had some terrible illness, and that if she didn’t front tomorrow it would be because she’d died during the night. Ha! If her luck was that good she’d have already won the lottery twice.

  ‘You getting out, or are you planning on sitting there all night?’ he asked.

  Since lunch their limited conversation had been strictly professional. Flanagan had been thorough in the extreme and, unlike some photographers whom Jacqui had worked with, not the least bit condescending when discussing the angles and light conditions he wanted to use.

  When she’d produced her own camera and taken some shots he hadn’t made any disparaging remarks as Wade often had about ‘amateurs playing artists’. Then again, such would have counted as personal conversation, and it was plain that he’d been avoiding that, cutting her short every time she’d tried to start one.

  Now, judging by his curt voice, the tenseness in his handsome face and the grim line of his mouth, he wasn’t in any mood to hear that she was suffering a life-threatening case of nerves. Sighing, she climbed from the Land Rover.

  Patric watched her silent departure. All day he’d had to battle to keep his eyes from straying to her shapely bare legs and the tantalising curve of her behind beneath the khaki hiking shorts she wore. But now, as she walked away from him towards the hotel, he leaned against the bonnet of the car and allowed himself the luxury of looking—secure in the knowledge that these surroundings provided a brake on his self-control that the isolated countryside didn’t.

  He frowned. The tan hiking boots on her feet didn’t give her stride the same jauntiness as they had this morning. Sure, they’d done a bit of walking, but not that much. And from the way her shoulders drooped, a person would think she’d spent the day hauling sacks of bricks—or the problems of the world up Everest.

  He straightened. Was something bothering her? Nah! Besides, as long as it didn’t affect her work, why should it matter to him? And it didn’t matter to him. Not a bit.

  ‘OK, Jacqui, what’s up?’

  He’d knocked once and announced himself. She’d been slow to open her door and he’d thought that she might be asleep, but though the bed behind her was rumpled it was still fully made and the room lit by lamplight.

  ‘“Up”?’ she echoed.

  Her blue eyes were duller than he liked to see them and her face strained. Her hair was loose, and its mid-thigh length matched the hem of her Garfield nightshirt. His pulse and respiratory rates weren’t comfortable with the sight of so much smooth, bare leg so he quickly averted his eyes.

  ‘Mind if I come in?’ he asked, wondering how she could manage to look both surprised and hesitant at the same time. She glanced down at what she wore and, apparently deciding that it was decent, stepped back and motioned him inside.

  Her room was identical to his own, right down to the yellow electric jug and cheap china cups sitting on the small corner-table.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee?’ he mused aloud.

  ‘Been banned from the dining-room, have you?’ she asked, taking the jug into the bathroom to fill it.

  ‘The dining-room shut a half-hour ago. Which is why I’m here,’ he said. ‘You didn’t have dinner tonight.’

  One look at the only chair in the room told him that it would be every bit as uncomfortable as the one in his room, so he chose to sit on the bed.

  She returned to the room, set the jug back on the table and turned it on. ‘I wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘A reasonable explanation,’ he conceded. ‘Except I’ve seen you eat. If you’re off your feed there has to be something wrong.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘You haven’t been out of your room since we arrived back this afternoon. Are you sick?’

  A moment passed before she said, ‘No.’

  ‘So what’s wrong?’

  ‘Why does anything have to be wrong, Flanagan?’

  ‘Because you look like hell.’

  ‘Worried I’ll mess up your photographs tomorrow? Well, don’t be, I’m a whiz with make-up. Remember, I’ve learned my trade well.’ She poured the boiling water into two mugs and stirred the contents. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  She handed him a cup from arm’s length.

  ‘Is that what this is all about—your sulking?’

  ‘I told you, Flanagan, I don’t sulk.’

  ‘No, you told me you didn’t pout.’

  She blinked as if he’d startled her by recalling their conversation so precisely. To be honest, it annoyed him that he did, but as she carried her cup past him to the vacant chair the subtly perfumed scent of her replaced irritation with a more earthy emotion.

  The TV was on but no sound came from it, which made the silence between them more pronounced. He got up and turned it off.

  ‘Take over, why don’t you, Flanagan?’ came the dry response to his action.

  ‘OK, maybe you weren’t sulking before I got here, but unless you’re a lip-reader you sure weren’t watching television.’ He returned to the edge of the bed and leaned towards her, his arms on his knees. ‘Something’s bothering you, Jacqui,’ he said softly. ‘What is it?’

  She gave him a pointed look.

  ‘Besides me.’ He smiled. ‘If I was your major problem you’d have already kicked me out’

  ‘Maybe I’m still weighing up the advantage of booting your behind through the window over booting it through the door and down the stairs,’ she suggested.

  Why not? he thought; he’d sure spent enough time thinking about her taut little behind today. And, given the way the soft cotton of her nightdress clung to all her other attributes, this was the last place he needed to be!

  ‘In that case—’ he pushed himself to his feet ‘—I’ll solve your problem and just—’

  ‘No!’ Her hand darted out to grab his arm. Just as quickly she drew it back. ‘I need to ask you some questions about tomorrow’s shoot’

  Her voice wasn’t quite steady, and discomfort shadowed her usually bright face. Seeing her so vulnerable sparked an emotion in him that Patric didn’t want to examine too carefully.

  ‘Nervous, huh?’ He offered a half-smile.

  She sighed, then nodded. ‘I’m telling myself it’s just another shoot. The same as thousands I’ve done…’ Her voice trailed off and the smile she gave didn’t quite work. ‘It’s stupid, but I don’t feel mentally ready for this. I’m not sure I can distance the real me from the professional me.’

  Her expression begged him to understand what she was trying to say.

  ‘Is that what you usually do?’ he asked. ‘Close off your genuine emotions and switch on what you think the camera wants?’

  She gave him a funny look. ‘Of course. That’s why it’s called posing.’ She laughed, then grabbed her hair and twisted it roughly on to the top of her head and held it there. ‘See?’ she said, assuming a haughty expression. ‘The regal look.’ She let the hair fall, tousled it with her fingers, then widened her eyes and wrinkled her nose. ‘The girl-next-door look.’

  Warming to her task, she sprang to her feet, tossed her head forward once to give her hair a windblown effect, then, lifting one arm, she dr
aped it dreamily across her head and wriggled until the neck of the nightie slipped off her other shoulder. Finally she licked her lips and nibbled her bottom lip. ‘This is the seductive-stroke-siren look.’

  She giggled and dropped the pose. ‘You think I’m an idiot, right?’

  ‘No,’ he said huskily. ‘I think you’re absolutely beautiful.’ Before he could talk himself out of it he reached for her and pulled so that they both fell backwards across the bed.

  It happened in an instant, and yet Jacqui saw and felt everything in slow motion…

  Off balance both physically and mentally, she seemed to free-fall through space into Flanagan’s arms, to land across the firmness of his chest. She was winded, not by the force of contact with him, but from the thumping impact of her heart against her lungs and ribcage.

  She was intensely aware of every individual change in her body’s normal functions—from the increased speed of the blood in her arteries to the way the sensual juices building within her tranquillised her fraught nerves.

  But she was equally alert to the feel of the man beneath her, alert to the burning heat coming from his hands as, tangled in her hair, they moved with delirious intensity across her shoulders, the small of her back, her buttocks, and then retraced their path.

  Through all this her focus remained on the male face drawing nearer and nearer—the lightly shadowed jaw, the highridged cheekbones, and the moist, parted lips, showing a hint of even white teeth and promising pleasure. This was Flanagan—arrogant, conceited, bossy, professional, don’tcompare-me-with-my-father Patric Flanagan. And she wanted his kiss more than she wanted to breathe.

  Her stomach dipped as if on a rollercoaster as a denim-clad leg moved between hers to flip her on to her back. Her eyes closed at the sound of a resigned groan, but who it came from she didn’t know—for she was instantly lost in the taste of passion.

  His tongue made one feverish pass over her lips before plunging between them to engage her own in a desireprovoked duel. Recalling how shabbily fate had treated her in the past, Jacqui’s hands immediately grasped at his head to guarantee that he wasn’t snatched away. She wanted this man more achingly than she’d ever wanted anything— needed him, body and soul.