by Liz Fielding
His jaw tightened. ‘Nyssa…I didn’t mean…’
‘Didn’t you?’ And a second button parted from its loop.
Nyssa could see that he was trying to remain cool, but she knew that one word was all it would take to drive him over the edge. Well, that was good. She wanted him to boil over and take her with him, take her and make her forget…
‘Kiss me, Matt Crosby,’ she said, her voice hoarse as unshed tears tightened her throat. Four words. That was all. But they were the right four, because with a soft moan he reached out and slid his fingers through her hair, cupping her head in his hand. ‘Kiss me,’ she repeated recklessly.
Matt knew he should back off, resist the clawing heat of his body. This was breaking all the rules. Don’t get too close. Don’t get involved. But it was too late for those thoughts. It had been too late ever since Nyssa Blake had stepped onto the podium in the Assembly Rooms.
He had been drawn by something almost desperate in her eyes, a vulnerability, a hunger that had seemed to reach out across the rows of chairs, the gathered journalists, something that had spoken directly to him; the rules had never stood a chance.
Besides, the rules no longer mattered. Parker had broken them first. No dirty business, Matt had said, and he had meant it. What had happened tonight had broken the contract. Tomorrow he’d return Parker’s money, even though he had every right to keep it, but he’d give it back and tell him to find someone else to do his dirty work. He’d manage somehow; he always managed…
Then, as Nyssa tilted her face to him with something almost desperate in those lambent blue eyes, he put thinking on hold and started acting. He reached for her, pulled her close, trawling her full, red mouth, tasting her lips, swallowing her scent so that it became part of him for ever.
She must have liked it because she reached up and put her hands about his neck, a gesture at once knowing and trusting, as she dropped all her defences. Emboldened, he let his hand drift down over the sweet curve of her hips, tugging her in tight against him so that she would be in no doubt about what she was doing to him.
Through the heavy cloth of his jeans Nyssa felt the urgency of Matt’s desire. His eyes, in that moment when she had first seen him across the length of the Assembly Rooms, had touched a fuse at a moment when she had been feeling low, vulnerable. To know that she was desired, wanted, had set a charge to the banked-up heat of longing that had been simmering for years.
Pain piling on confusion piling on disaster had driven her into the arms of Matt Crosby, and now he was offering her the strength and comfort of his body, a refuge. For a moment she felt again the panic in the sudden darkness when an unknown man’s hands had grabbed for her, covering her mouth and nose in a smothering, suffocating nightmare. No one had ever got that close to her before. A shiver of apprehension went through her and she clung to Matt, needing his strength.
She had been the one in control for so long, the one everybody looked to for a lead. Tomorrow they would all clamour for answers, reassurance: the press, her helpers, her family. But for now Matt was offering her a moment out of time, the chance to be just any girl in the arms of any man.
How she had longed for that moment of bittersweet surrender, carrying the pain of her longing deep inside her, hoping that one day Gil would come to her; knowing, deep in her heart, that he never would. To him she was, always would be, his dead friend’s little girl. Just as she would always have been a little girl to her father. But Matt didn’t think that. He saw her as a woman, a desirable woman. And she shivered.
‘This is crazy—’ He stopped her protest with a slow, sweet kiss that seemed to sap her will-power and turn her bones to water. She knew that it meant nothing, was simply the flight from danger driving her responses in man’s only antidote to death. Yet an excitement shimmered through her, the need to know…
‘Madness,’ he whispered. But one hand at her nape gentled her while the long square-tipped fingers of the other continued to slip the loops from the tiny jet buttons in a slow, exquisitely intimate disrobing that was heating her skin, firing her own damped-down yearning.
In that first moment when she’d stepped up onto the platform she’d recognised in him the type of man that mothers warned their daughters about. Dangerous. Sexy. The type of man who could make you forget anything. The intensity of his gaze had hooked her attention as she had glanced about the room, holding her, so that for a moment she had found it difficult to look away. It was an intensity that burned bright in him now.
All she knew about him was his name, that he was thirty-four years old and that he was a journalist. And it didn’t matter. The world was on hold. Outside of Matt Crosby’s hotel room time was standing still. Tomorrow everything would be, if not quite the same, then nearly so. The interviews, the planning, the endless telephone calls would continue even more intensely because of what had happened at the Assembly Rooms. She began to tremble and her legs buckled weakly, so that she leaned against him.
‘Nyssa…’ She clung to him. ‘Nyssa, it’s all right. Don’t cry. You’re safe.’ He thumbed the tear from her cheek and he held her and rocked her as the reaction slammed in hard and she wept into his shirt.
‘I’m sorry…so sorry…’
‘I know, sweetheart. I know.’ And he did know. She needed him, needed someone to hold onto in the darkness. But not like this. He gathered her close, held onto her, straining every sinew to hang onto some semblance of sanity. He didn’t do this. He didn’t have sex with strangers. Except this wasn’t just sex. It was more, much more than that. As he held her in his arms, felt the tremor in her limbs, the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his hand, he knew he wanted much more than that. ‘You’re safe here,’ he said. ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you.’ And as she clung to him Matt felt as if he was melting from the inside out. I won’t let anyone hurt you.
Waking in strange places, situations fraught with danger, had instilled in Nyssa a discipline of stillness, of silence while she sorted out the messages bombarding her brain. As she gradually focused on the man lying beside her this habit did not desert her, despite the rush of memories that rose to her throat and threatened to choke her.
Memories of the way Matt had held her, comforted her, shushed away the demons and made her feel safe.
His thick dark hair was feathered across his forehead and in sleep he had lost much of the hard-edged wariness that marked his mouth. She’d sensed it behind his eyes, even when he’d held her close like a small child as the reaction to everything that had happened to her had finally kicked in and she had clung to him, trembling and weeping.
She had to curl her fingers tight to stop herself from reaching out to him, waking him with the touch of her hand against his lips, the urge to thank him with everything she had to give.
Most men would have taken advantage of the way she had reacted and made love to her. He had not. Which seemed to answer any doubts she might have. He was a good man.
Too good to be true?
The thought rose to taunt her gullibility. No man was that good. So, who was Matt Crosby? Really?
He’d said a journalist, a freelance journalist. Maybe. She could check that. She would check it. Because, despite the ease with which he’d rattled off that parody of a tabloid story last night, he hadn’t quite convinced her that writing was his trade. At least, not his primary one. He was too hard, too quick on his feet, too wary.
Obviously he’d got an invitation to the presentation from somewhere; his name would have been checked against a list at the door. They’d had troublemakers gatecrash their press conferences before and learned to be vigilant.
But the man who’d jumped her had got inside too, along with the men who’d smashed the slide projector. Too easily. Infiltration of their ranks wasn’t difficult and their enemies were getting smarter.
Were they smart enough to work out that she would trust without question a man who had snatched her from the terror of unknown hands reaching out from the darkness? She watched the man sleep
ing beside her, remembering the way he had held her through the tears, gentling her with his voice, his tender touch, until she had finally fallen asleep curled up against the comfort of his chest. And she hated herself for doubting him.
And yet… And yet…
There was more than one way to get a man on the inside, just as there was more than one way of keeping a girl a prisoner. She was here, wasn’t she? In his room. In his bed. Last night he had been Galahad, her white knight. What would he do if she decided to leave? If she woke him, said, Thanks… See you around…?
Would he pull her into his arms, kiss her as she had begged him to last night, so that she’d forget all about leaving? That she didn’t doubt his ability to do just that spoke volumes. Or maybe he’d simply offer to take her home, or anywhere she wanted to go. Perhaps, just as an afterthought, he’d suggest the safe haven of his own home, a place where her enemies could not find her. Wrapped in the silken cords of desire, the warmth of his kindness, she would never suspect that she was a prisoner. And even if she did, she still might not want to escape.
Even as the treacherous thoughts formed in her head Nyssa watched the gentle rise and fall of Matt’s chest. She longed to reach out, run her fingers over his smooth sun-darkened skin, have her doubts swept away as he woke and pulled her into the warm curve of his body. It took all her strength not to wake him and grab at the momentary illusion of safety, the momentary illusion that she was loved.
Might not want to escape? Who was she trying to kid? She had to get away right now, before he woke. She forced herself to turn away while she still could and began to ease herself across the bed.
‘You’ve got five minutes, sweetheart.’ Matt’s voice was heavy with sleep. ‘After that, you’ve got company.’
Nyssa looked back over her shoulder. He hadn’t moved, but a glint of grey showed beneath heavy lids as he watched her walk across the room. All that self-denial must have put a strain on his good intentions, and she’d be the first to admit that he’d had a lot of provocation. Even now, the temptation to turn around and go back to bed, to him, dragged at her. She had to get out of there before she abandoned all reason.
Forsaking all idea of retrieving her dress—if she so much as looked in that direction he’d know—she headed purposefully for the bathroom, conveniently situated by the door. She’d slept in his shirt and that would have to do for the dash to her room.
‘Five minutes is all I need,’ she said briskly, and then was out of his sight in the room’s tiny vestibule. The bathroom door was to her left, the door to the corridor ahead.
Nyssa placed one hand on each of the door handles and opened them both at the same time, so that he wouldn’t hear a second click, be alerted to her bid for freedom. She wasn’t giving him the chance to stop her.
Maybe, though, she should take a towel. She didn’t much relish the idea of appearing in Reception in nothing but her knickers and a man’s shirt. Just in case anyone from the tabloids was still hanging about. She ducked quickly into the bathroom and used the loo, flushed it, washed her hands—sounds he’d be expecting—before taking advantage of the situation to grab the biggest towel she could find and wrap it around her waist like a sarong.
Then she turned the shower on. It should hold him long enough for her to find a chambermaid to let her into her own room. Except, of course, he wasn’t the sort of man you could just walk away from without a word. He would follow her there. And her car keys were in her handbag, lost in the scuffle at the Assembly Rooms.
For just a moment she considered giving up all thought of escape. She would go back, get into bed… Nyssa caught herself, horrified by her thoughts. Last night there had been some excuse for the way she’d thrown herself at him…fear…shock…
To stay now would be…wanton.
It wasn’t as if she trusted him. She had to leave. Now. Get away from everyone. She needed time to think. For that she needed transport.
Matt’s jacket was still hanging behind the bathroom door and slowly, quietly, she felt in the pocket until her fingers closed around his keys. Escape was no longer a problem. The problem was a lingering desire to stay…
Refusing to be tempted, she wound a second, smaller towel round her head like a turban, to cover her bright hair, and then, taking a deep breath, eased her way carefully out of the bathroom. Her shoes were by the bedroom door, where she had kicked them off last night, and she grabbed them before easing herself out into the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar. The click of it shutting would be more than enough to alert a man like Matt Crosby.
Ignoring the startled glance of another early riser, she ran lightly in her bare feet along the corridor to her own room, still hoping she might find a chambermaid with a master key so she could grab a handful of clothes before Matt discovered she had gone. But chambermaids were like policemen. There was never one around when you needed one.
The kitchen staff, getting started on breakfast, turned in astonishment as she waltzed through wearing Matt’s shirt, a towel and a smile.
‘Good morning,’ she said brightly. Then she was out into the cool, clean morning air and she slipped on her high-heeled shoes and crossed the car park.
Matt’s dark blue Mercedes was a long way from new, but it was big and powerful and a pleasure to drive. It also had a full tank of fuel, and when she reached the roundabout on the outskirts of town she decided not to go back to her flat in London, where the press would undoubtedly be camped out and would be delighted by the picture she presented them with. It was not the way she intended to make the front page.
Besides, she had promised Gil that she would go home for James’s birthday party. And she’d be safe there, safe from strangers in the dark and anything else that might threaten her.
So she pulled the disguising towel from her head, shook her hair free and took the road to the south coast.
Matt stirred as the sound of the shower brought him out of sleep for the second time. This time he stayed awake, rolled over onto his back and crooked his arms behind his head. He knew he was grinning from ear to ear but he couldn’t help it. Last night he’d behaved himself, done the right thing. He deserved a reward for that. And that shower had been running for more than five minutes.
For a moment he pleasurably tortured himself with an image of the water sluicing over Nyssa’s pale skin. With thoughts of what he might do to her, what she might do to him. All the fantasies he’d beaten back last night. Then he succumbed to temptation, throwing back the sheets and crossing to the bathroom.
The door was not quite shut, and he tapped on it and pushed it open a little further. The shower curtain was drawn along the bath, the room was full of steam, but it was nothing to the way he was steaming up inside.
‘How do you feel about some company in there?’ he called.
Teasingly, she didn’t answer.
Well, he could tease too, as she would soon find out. ‘Here I come, ready or not,’ he called, and, closing the bathroom door behind him, he opened the shower cubicle.
It took a moment for the reality to sink in. Then the ten-foot-tall feeling dissipated like snow in August and he stood there, enveloped in steam, cursing his own stupidity with a fluency that would have raised even Nyssa’s eyebrows.
He showered and reached for a towel. There was one. It was about the size of a postage stamp, which answered any question he might have about how she had managed to get away without causing a riot in Reception when she went to collect her room key.
He dried as best he could, shaved, dressed, packed his bag. And then, having gathered her clothes, he picked up the telephone and asked Reception to put him through to Nyssa’s room.
‘Miss Blake isn’t in, sir.’
Of course she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have played charades with the shower if she’d been going back to her own room. There wouldn’t have been any point because she must have realised he would go after her.
He dropped her clothes onto the bed. ‘Did she check out, or are you ex
pecting her back?’
There was a discreet clearing of the throat from the other end of the telephone, a pause. ‘We’re not quite sure of her movements, sir, but her car is still in the forecourt.’
‘Then how—?’ Instinctively, he slapped the pocket of his jacket and knew how. And to make matters worse he knew that if this had happened to anyone else he would be laughing. Just the way she was laughing at him.
Nyssa was hungry. She’d had no supper and no breakfast, and when she spotted a lay-by she pulled over to check the glove box. A torch, dark glasses, a packet of chocolate biscuits. Matt Crosby apparently had a weakness for the things. Or maybe he was perpetually prepared against the likelihood of missed meals.
Well, journalists lived to an uncertain schedule, she thought, taking one and munching it slowly. And she did want him to be a journalist. But there were other jobs where a man might not know when he was next going to eat, not all of them so… She grinned suddenly. ‘Innocent’ was the word that had come bubbling into her mind. It was not a word that suited Matt Crosby, despite the way he’d behaved the previous night.
He’d been noble.
Not many red-blooded males would have resisted the temptation she had flung in his path.
But the way he’d kissed her had been anything but innocent.
She dragged her mind back from the minefield of exactly what Matt Crosby was, might be. There was a telephone in the car. It was time to stop daydreaming and get back to reality. And first she needed to call the Delvering Arms and explain her precipitate departure. The last thing she needed was bad feeling in the town. After last night’s fiasco there would be enough of that. She picked up the handset, turned it on and called the hotel.
‘Good morning. The Delvering Arms, Laura speaking, how may I help you?’
‘Hi, Laura. This is Nyssa Blake. Could I speak to the duty manager, please?’
‘Yes, Miss Blake. Oh, Mr Crosby was looking for you. He left a message.’ Well, what a surprise. ‘Would you like me to read it to you?’
