by Liz Fielding
For a moment she continued to struggle furiously. He simply hung on until she realised she was wasting her time. Then she went quite still and opened her eyes to look up at him.
‘Okay, you win,’ she said huskily, her chest heaving as she gasped for air.
Matt deeply distrusted her sudden surrender. He might have subdued her temporarily, but the minute he let go she would undoubtedly let fly at him. And, having tested him to the point where she knew he wouldn’t hurt her, she could let rip without fear of the consequences.
But holding on had its dangers too. Her body was pressed beneath him and he was practically drowning in the deep, dangerous currents of her eyes, in the scent that came from her hair, her skin. And her full red mouth was lifted towards him, unconsciously seductive, but seductive nonetheless.
‘This isn’t a contest, lady,’ he said, more harshly than he had intended, and released her so suddenly that she fell back, her dress halfway to her waist where the buttons had parted. He wanted to look away. He really needed to look away. But he knew the minute he did she would fly at him again. So he swallowed hard and tried not to think about the glimpse of black lace and thighs that would give a monk disturbing dreams. ‘For your information I just saved you from being kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped?’ Impossibly, her eyes widened further.
‘You don’t think that the projector fell over all by itself, do you? Or that the guy who grabbed you just wanted to dance?’ He didn’t elaborate; he was sure she was quite capable of working it all out for herself.
Kidnapped? Everything had happened so quickly. Disruption she could understand. The threat of it was always there. But what would be the point of kidnapping her? After a long pause, when all that could be heard inside the car was the sound of ragged breathing being brought under control—his as well as hers—she said, ‘You were at the back of the hall.’ He was the man she’d known on sight wasn’t just some small-town news hound. ‘You must have moved very fast…’ She eased up in the seat, aware that he was watching her carefully, as if expecting her to bolt at any moment, and began to rub absently at her wrists. ‘Unless, of course, you knew what was about to happen.’ Which begged the question…if he wasn’t a journalist, what was he? Exactly? ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
Her eyes narrowed. They did that pretty spectacularly too, Matt thought. She should be shouting, yelling, screaming for the police. It was what any normal girl would do under the circumstances. Her control was slightly unnerving. He sensed she knew that, was using it to her advantage, waiting for an opportunity to flee the moment his guard was down. That was something he could not allow. Not until he was sure she was out of danger. Her reputation was one thing…but that she might be hurt—or worse—he could not allow.
‘I’m a freelance journalist—’ it depressed him how easily he said the lie ‘—and I was hoping for an interview.’
She continued to regard him steadily, as if deciding whether to believe him. ‘Couldn’t it have waited until after the presentation?’ she asked finally, then managed a slightly shaky laugh. ‘You didn’t have to hijack me, you know. If you’d left your number, I’d have called you.’
He managed a grin. This was one cool lady. ‘Maybe I have a tight deadline,’ he offered. ‘Perhaps now, over a brandy, might be a good time.’ He needed one even if she didn’t. The feeling was beginning to come back to his knuckles with a vengeance.
She regarded him coolly. ‘You think that saving me from being kidnapped entitles you to jump the queue?’
‘It seems only fair,’ he countered. ‘After all, I was in the front of the queue when that thug grabbed you.’
‘Maybe you do have a point,’ she admitted. ‘Shall we retire to the bar of the Delvering Arms?’
He hadn’t anticipated such instant agreement; it made him suspicious. And shouldn’t she be demanding he take her back to the television cameras so that she could tell the world what had happened?
Needing time to think, he turned his head away, looking back to where a noisy crowd had gathered in front of the Assembly Rooms, with people carrying placards demanding the jobs a supermarket would bring to the town and indicating rather graphically that the protesters should get lost.
‘They weren’t there ten minutes ago,’ he said. ‘Where have they come from?’
‘Mobs-R-Us?’ she suggested, with disdain. ‘Does it matter? They’ve done what they were paid for.’ Clearly it was the payment that had earned her disdain, not their methods of protesting.
‘At least you’re certain of making the evening news,’ Matt agreed, and even as he spoke the television cameras were being trained on the angry crowd. ‘That’ll be good for business.’
Her expression suggested otherwise. ‘I’d hoped to put our case in a reasoned and thoughtful manner.’
‘Do you want to go back and try again?’
‘There’s no point. I’ve lost control of the situation. If I go back they’ll just shout me down, drown me out. Besides, I’m not dressed for a scuffle.’ She smiled a little. At close quarters the blue eyes were lethal. ‘Isn’t that why you grabbed me? To keep me out of the way? Give them a free run at this?’
He’d thought he’d convinced her. Clearly he had been kidding himself. ‘Weren’t you listening?’ he demanded, just a little angry that his good deed was not being fully appreciated for the altruistic gesture it was. Considering he was supposed to be on the other side. Was on the other side. Except that when he’d said no dirty business he’d meant it. ‘I’m not the one who did the grabbing.’ He said it slowly and carefully, just to be certain that she understood. ‘Someone else had that dubious pleasure. I simply got you out of there, and precious little thanks I’ve had for my pains.’
‘Thanks he wants,’ she murmured sarcastically. ‘It’s a nice story, Mr…’ she glanced at the lapel badge clipped to his collar ‘…Mr Crosby, but really—’
‘It’s no story, lady,’ he said, flexing his stinging hand and holding it up for her to see. ‘I’ve got the wounds to prove it.’
For a moment she stared at his battered and bloody knuckles. Then frowned. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘That’s what happens when you hit someone with your fist, or hadn’t you noticed?’ He took her hand and looked at it. There was a little bruising on one of the knuckles, nothing worse, but even so when he rubbed the pad of his thumb across them she winced and pulled away. ‘You see? Maybe next time I should take a leaf out of your book and use my feet,’ he said sardonically. Then he realised that she was shaking. ‘Oh, look. It’s not that bad, really. It was worth a little pain.’
‘I hate violence,’ she said, with a long shudder. She could have fooled him, but as the trembling reached her voice he put his arm about her and held her close, absorbing the shudders into his own body.
‘To tell you the truth, Miss Blake, I’m not all that keen on it myself,’ he said, but with her cheek soft against his neck, her slender body fragile as a bird in his arms, he knew just how easy it would be to seriously damage anyone who would hurt her.
As if sensing some change in him, she looked up. ‘Who are you really?’ she asked. Then she groaned. ‘Oh, wait, I get it. You’re one of Gil’s tame bodyguards, right?’ And she pulled back a little. ‘I should have known when he left this evening without making a fuss that he’d covered all possibilities…’
Matt didn’t say anything. He’d read the files; he knew well enough that the Gil in question had to be her brother-in-law, or more accurately her stepbrother-in-law, Gil Paton. Invalided out of the army after he had taken a sniper’s bullet in the Balkans, he now led a consortium of ex-soldiers in a business covering all kinds of security and protection. It was reasonable enough that he would organise some protection for her, which perhaps was why Matt hadn’t thought twice about the minders. She had obviously been resisting the idea, though, which was interesting.
‘Okay, Mr Crosby…’ She squinted at the label attached to his jacket. ‘Matt? Is that really your n
ame?’ She made one of those graceful little gestures. ‘No, don’t answer that, since you won’t tell me the truth anyway…’ She glanced up at him. ‘Okay, Mr Crosby, you’ve done your job. You can take me back to the hotel now.’
‘For the brandy and the interview?’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Never?’
‘Not since I turned eighteen. Before that, of course, it was almost mandatory. A bit like losing your virginity before you go into the sixth form…’ Her voice trailed away, and for just a moment he thought she was going to blush, which was interesting. It was clearly a well-used ploy to shock maiden aunts—if such things still existed—but why would she think it would shock him? Why would she even bother to try? His silence seemed to unnerve her a little. ‘Actually, you might be right about that drink.’
‘I know I am.’ He leaned forward to start his car. ‘And it’s definitely time we got out of here,’ he added, as he glanced in the mirror. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about giving an interview?’ With a jerk of his head he indicated the approaching television crew, who were looking for anyone who might have seen something interesting or some local with a point of view to air.
She half turned, hesitated, then shook her head. ‘No…’
‘You’re sure? You could win the sympathy vote right now. A few tears on the pavement will melt hearts of stone. And the glimpse of underwear will ensure you have at least half the country’s undivided attention.’
She stiffened, grabbed the front of her dress and began to work on the buttons. ‘That’s not my style, Mr Crosby.’ She caught his questioning look. ‘They might have wrecked my press conference but I’ll think of some way to turn this to my advantage. I mean, it hardly puts Mr Parker on the side of the angels, does it? It’s odd, because I would have thought he was cleverer than that…’
‘Maybe he’s more desperate than you thought. And you’ve missed the point.’ And a button, but he thought it wiser not to mention that. ‘If whoever set this up had been successful, you wouldn’t have been around to organise anything.’
She stared at him and he could see the reality of what had happened was beginning to sink in. ‘Yes. I see.’ She glanced back again. ‘Maybe I should—’
‘No, you shouldn’t. As you said, it’s not your style.’ Besides which, her lipstick was smudged, her sleek cap of hair uncharacteristically mussed. For a moment she didn’t look anything like the controlled, determined young woman who had fearlessly taken on big business and had it on the run. She looked like a girl who, for a moment, was just a little bit lost, and Matt wanted to hold her, reassure her. He managed to stop himself, but it was a close-run thing. ‘And if you’re at all keen to hang onto your reputation for unruffled perfection in the face of adversity, Miss Blake, I think I should tell you that you could use a comb.’
She lifted her hand to her hair in a self-conscious gesture. ‘Oh, right. In that, case, Mr Crosby, I suggest we retire to the bar of the hotel with all speed.’
‘Just Crosby will do,’ he said as he let slip the handbrake, checked the mirror and moved away from the kerb. ‘Or Matt, if you promise to keep your feet to yourself. I don’t usually allow people who kick me to get that personal. What do your family call you?’ he asked, while she was making up her mind.
‘A nuisance?’ she offered. ‘And I hate to think what the construction industry call me.’
‘Much the same,’ he said, with a grin. ‘But the less printable versions.’ And, since he didn’t intend listing them, he put his foot down hard and his old Mercedes surged forward, leaving the approaching news hounds standing.
Once out of sight of the Assembly Rooms he slowed, and a few moments later pulled into the staff car park at the rear of the Delvering Arms.
‘We’ll stick to the back way, I think,’ he said, taking her arm and steering her in via the kitchen. He nodded to the chef and headed for the stairs.
Nyssa stopped abruptly. ‘I thought we were going to have a drink?’ she said.
‘We are. But not in the bar. It’ll be a bit crowded?’ he suggested as her eyebrows hit her hairline.
‘In that case I’ll still need my key,’ she said.
‘I’d wait until things have quietened down a bit,’ he advised, taking his own key from his pocket.
‘But—’
‘People will be looking for you. Your room is the first place they’ll go.’ She still hesitated. ‘They may not all have your best interests at heart,’ he pointed out.
‘I still have my doubts about you,’ she said crossly.
She might suspect that he was connected with Paton, but it was obvious that she wasn’t totally convinced. It was smart of her to be suspicious, but Matt didn’t want her having second thoughts about him now. ‘You can call Gil Paton from my room, if you like,’ he said, hoping to reassure her.
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Your little skirmish will be on the news later. He might worry.’
‘If you’re that concerned you can call him yourself.’ She turned and headed up the stairs without further argument, giving him a great view of the way her dress clung to her figure, the way the skirt swayed seductively about her hips and legs. She stopped abruptly as she reached the top and he narrowly avoided bumping into her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bump into her. Just that his body had taken enough punishment for one day, both physical and sensual. ‘Well?’ she demanded, when they reached the top of the stairs. ‘Will you call him? Report in? Tell him that he was right? As usual.’
Matt wasn’t sure what was irritating her the most—the fact that her brother-in-law thought she needed a bodyguard, or the fact that he had been proved right.
‘Why would he listen to me? I’ve never met the man. My room’s this way,’ he said, indicating the corridor to the left.
She made a dismissive noise. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
He offered a smile by way of reply. ‘This is it.’ And he slid the key into the lock and held the door open for her. ‘And there’s the phone. Help yourself. See what he says when you thank him for saving you from…’ He stopped. From Parker’s deep, dark dungeon? Was the man desperate enough to take a short cut if he thought he might get away with it?
He’d assumed she was just a pretty face to front the group, but now he’d seen her in action, met her, Matt had no doubt that Nyssa Blake was the driving force behind the campaign to save the cinema.
While there would certainly be a fuss of monumental proportions if she disappeared for any length of time, media attention would shift from the cinema to the hunt for Nyssa, distracting her supporters, leaving them without a leader. And if it could be made to look as if she had been frightened off, had run away…
It shouldn’t be beyond the wit or imagination of Charles Parker to arrange sightings of look-alikes in a variety of glamorous places, fostering resentment and anger among those people who had given their time, their energy, their money to her cause. By the time she reappeared, lost and wandering somewhere, dazed from drugs, or worse, it would all be over.
And if he went to the police with his suspicions what could he tell them? That Parker had given him a wad of money to find out something bad about the girl? Parker would deny it and Matt had no proof. And Nyssa would be the first to admit that the police were not her number one fans. They’d probably be as relieved to see the back of her as the developers.
It occurred to him that the sooner he found something to use against her, something that might at least pressure her into moderating her demands, the better. It wasn’t pleasant, but it could save her from a lot worse.
‘Saving me?’ She glanced back at him, prompting him to go on.
He stared at her for a moment, half believing she could read his mind. Then he realised she was referring to his last half-finished sentence, and he managed a shrug. ‘From whatever those goons had in store. I’ll leave it to your imagination. And while you’re making your call, I’ll get us a drink.
’
‘You should clean up your hand first.’
‘My hand will wait. The bathroom is through there if you want to freshen up,’ he said, heading for the minibar and hunkering down to examine its contents.
‘This is a lovely room. Much bigger than mine.’
‘I’m on expenses. Besides, it was all they had left.’
‘Expenses?’
You’ve got a big mouth, Crosby. Or maybe she’d hit him harder than he realised. ‘I’ve got a commission,’ he said. ‘If you want your picture in full glossy colour on a magazine cover, I’m your man.’
There were a couple of brandy miniatures in the fridge. Right at that moment he could have used both of them himself, but he poured them into two glasses, then picked one up and took a mouthful, letting its heat wash slowly over his tongue before he swallowed it. He turned and realised that Nyssa hadn’t moved, but was standing watching him. He picked up the other glass and carried it over to her. She didn’t take it. ‘You really should clean up your hand,’ she insisted.
He tightened his fist to assess the damage. ‘I’ll live.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless…’ When he didn’t move, she made an impatient little noise with her tongue, took both glasses from him and set them down on a small table. ‘Come on. I’ll do it for you.’
‘There’s no need, Miss Blake—’
‘Nyssa,’ she said abruptly. Then, ‘I do hope you’re not going to make a fuss. I can’t stand men who make a fuss.’ Before he could deny even thinking of such a thing, she had taken him by the wrist and was leading him firmly towards the bathroom.
‘You’re incredibly bossy for such a little thing,’ he said.
‘Of course I’m bossy.’ And quite suddenly she smiled. Really smiled. ‘How far do you think I’d get if I went around saying “please” and “may I?” and “do you mind?”, all the time?’
‘Not far,’ he muttered, still trying to come down from the effect of her smile, desperately hoping she wouldn’t notice the way his body was responding. It had been touch and go since he’d first set eyes on her. Now, pushed up as tight against the door as he could get, he was still far too close to Nyssa Blake as she filled the sink with warm water, and the long, pale curve of her neck was an invitation to a soft caress…
