Reputation in Tatters

by Maggie Cox

  Feeling suddenly guilty that Nash might be already up and about and starting his day while she was still in bed, Freya threw back the duvet and put her feet to the floor. Just as she did there was a soft knock at the door.

  ‘Freya? Are you awake?’

  ‘Yes…I was just about to get up. Come in.’ She extended the invitation automatically, without thinking.

  Pushing the door wide, Nash was hardly prepared for the sight of one very shapely brunette, scantily clad in a flimsy red silk camisole with spaghetti straps and—as far as he could tell—matching panties, sitting on the bed rubbing the sleep from her very seductive dark eyes while her glorious dark hair cascaded freely down over her shoulders. His blue eyes locked onto her startled gaze with undisguised heat, and he had to ruefully tear them away when, realising how she must appear, Freya grabbed the duvet and quickly covered her exposed lower half with it.

  ‘I’m sorry! I should have grabbed my robe,’ she muttered, clearly embarrassed.

  ‘It’s me that should apologise,’ Nash drawled, helplessly admiring the sight of her again, and laying a hand against his chest in the pristine white shirt as if to somehow corral his suddenly thundering heartbeat. The corners of his mouth hitched upwards into a definitely roguish grin. ‘Except that I feel I should be thanking you too.’

  ‘Thanking me? What for?’

  ‘What for?’

  His blue eyes glittering like the most compelling sapphires, he shrugged in disbelief. ‘Sweetheart, if you have to ask me that then you really have been leading a sheltered life for too long!’ he teased.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  SHE hadn’t been to France for years. The last time had been when she’d attended the Cannes Film Festival—not to promote a film she’d had a role in, but as moral support for a friend of hers who’d made a very engaging film short. They’d had a wonderful time, Freya recalled, reminiscing as Nash drove their hire car through deserted French country roads. She sat beside him, her eyes shielded behind the pair of obligatory black sunglasses to keep out the glare of the midday sun and also to hide behind should some opportunist paparazzi happen to spot her.

  She had always intended to venture into the French countryside one day and see for herself the scenery and way of life that so many ex-pats were enthralled by, and Freya’s gaze alighted on the gently lilting verdant landscape with a quiet yet discernible excitement blossoming inside her. If she had to give an opinion on what she’d seen so far she would say that rural France was like an elegant apple tartan while its English equivalent was more akin to a sturdy bread-and-butter pudding—both sublime in their own way, but meeting different needs for different palates…

  Suppressing a grin at her fanciful foray into culinary metaphors, she chewed down almost guiltily on her lower lip. This was no time for levity. God knew she’d been in dire straits for the past couple of years, and her plight had been only too serious… But right then Freya felt strangely inexplicably light—as though some of the troubles weighing so heavily on her heart had suddenly somehow lifted.

  Stealing a glance at her serious-faced companion, able to explore that firm chiselled jaw of his and those enviable long eyelashes at close quarters, she allowed herself a surprising and momentary fantasy. They could be any ordinary young couple, she mused… Husband and wife taking a romantic break away from their busy lives in London—going to a place they’d bought for a steal a few years ago in the Dordogne and done up bit by bit, just the way they liked. They were going to unwind, lounge by the pool, read intriguing novels upon which they’d eagerly share their opinions over a glass of good red wine, and companionably share the cooking of the odd meal at home together, while at other times they would eat out in local cafés or bistros. Charming little family-run places, where they would be made most welcome and then discreetly left alone to enjoy the most divine food and, more importantly, each other’s company…

  So deep in the fantasy had Freya allowed herself to drift that she didn’t realise she’d released a long, heartfelt sigh.

  ‘Won’t be too much longer now before we’re there,’ Nash remarked, turning his head to briefly glance at her. ‘What were you thinking about just then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That sigh.’ The faintest lift at the corner of his mouth denoting amusement, Nash gave his full attention to the road again, slowing the car on the approach to a crossroads and flicking his gaze towards the array of signs there.

  ‘It’s just nice to be away.’ Shrugging almost guiltily when she thought of the compelling little daydream she’d just conjured up for herself—a daydream that was outrageous when she thought about it in the cold light of day—Freya moved her head to glance out of the window. ‘I’m in the middle of nowhere and nobody knows I’m here…except you, my uncle and my mother.’

  ‘Freedom,’ Nash agreed.

  ‘Yes—freedom. It doesn’t happen very often.’

  Not long after the crossroads, they arrived at the centuries-old renovated farmhouse that was Nash’s favourite retreat in the world. Its solid stone and mortar well-rooted in the earth, it looked as though it had stood there as long as the land containing it. The moment he drove the new-looking Renault he’d hired onto the huge expanse of gravelled drive and the scent of sweet herbs and newly cut grass drifted in through the opened car windows his body and mind seemed to heave a collective sigh. He undoubtedly thrived on the challenges and demands of his work, but he’d be a liar if he said he never felt like having the occasional break away from stressful city life.

  Soon, with the sun blazing down on his dark blond head, Nash stood outside the engaging blue-shuttered façade with Freya, satisfaction and pleasure flowing through him at the thought of spending the next few days there, speculating if the stunning Dordogne valley and this gracious old house nestled within it would effect the same timeless magic for her that it did for him. She was, after all, the first woman he had ever brought there. In fact, he couldn’t even recall mentioning its existence to any of his previous girlfriends. He’d always thought of Beau Refuge, as he’d christened it when the renovations were done, as his private and secret bolt-hole—a haven away from the rat race, and a place where he could unwind and enjoy his own company after days filled to the rafters with wall-to-wall people… But where else could he bring a famous movie actress and accord her some much needed privacy as well? This had to be the perfect place.

  ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  He turned and met the full force of Freya’s dazzling smile. Although her eyes were still shielded behind her glamorous dark glasses, Nash could feel the sudden unguarded warmth from her gaze practically drilling a hole in his chest.

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ he drawled lazily, his glance making an admiring reconnaissance of her body in a candy-pink shirt and pale blue denim jeans. Even though very little flesh was on show, apart from wrists and ankles, and even though her fairly ordinary attire was not provocative in itself, it couldn’t hide the soft, undulating curves of the very feminine body beneath it. And, remembering the mouthwatering picture she’d presented when he’d walked in on her yesterday morning in his spare bedroom—red silk underwear and all— Nash couldn’t help the dizzying electrical charge that zig-zagged like lightning into the pit of his stomach.

  ‘How long have you had this place?’ she asked, turning her face quickly away to re-examine the thick white walls and sky-blue shutters facing them.

  ‘About five years now. There’s a couple who live locally that look after it for me…Victor and Didi. They should have stocked the fridge and the cupboards for us, and got the rooms ready. Want to go in and have a look around? I’ll bring the cases.’

  ‘Okay.’

  After depositing their luggage in individual rooms, and telling Freya to explore the place at her leisure, Nash went outside to sit in the sun on a cane chair beside the glimmering aquamarine swimming pool. Before he made the couple of calls he had to make on his mobile he let his glance scrutinise the va
le of lush woodland to the right of him, followed by the recently ploughed fields to his left.

  Whilst they’d encountered no problem of being pestered at either airport they’d travelled from and to, Nash knew he could not afford to rest on his laurels and be lax in his vigilance. Even though this place was remote enough—and he’d driven on as many back roads as he could to get there—he still had to be on his guard for possible intruders. It only took one person to recognise Freya and report her whereabouts to a local paper and before they knew it they would find themselves knee-deep in picture-hungry paparazzi.

  It would be a damn shame after getting her this far without a hitch, Nash reflected, spearing his fingers through his hair. He wanted publicity for her, yes… But he wanted it to be positive, upbeat publicity—and to achieve that Freya needed the chance to rebuild her confidence away from the invasion of cameras and people. And of course the barrage of abuse she’d taken from her malignant ex-husband.

  Yesterday Nash had learned with satisfaction that Frazier had been stopped and questioned by the police on his arrival in Antigua, and issued with a strongly worded warning straight from Scotland Yard. Nash’s contact there had been only too obliging, and had done what he could to illustrate to James Frazier that if he so much as tried to contact Freya again he would be recommending a restraining order with severe consequences. When he’d related the events to Freya—Nash had been gratified to see some of the fear that haunted her leave her eyes. Now his hope was that she would relax sufficiently to start seeing the myriad possibilities of living a far happier life than she’d been living of late…

  In the middle of unpacking, Freya glanced out the tall shuttered windows that she’d immediately opened wide on entering the bedroom and glanced interestedly across at Nash, sitting in a cane chair beside the swimming pool. His tousled blond hair was a halo of dark golden flame, and his lightly tanned, fit body was clad in long ecru-coloured shorts and a white T-shirt. As he sat with his mobile phone pressed to his ear, Freya saw the sinews in his muscular arms flex a little as he moved, and her mouth went as dry as tinder.

  Impatient with herself, she turned abruptly away from the too-disturbing sight of him and stood in the centre of the room, with its high ceiling, cool stone floor and neatly made bed, frowning deeply. She had no business ogling him like some starstruck movie fan, she chided herself irritably. In effect they were both at the farmhouse to work. Nash to get to know her with a view to helping her professionally, and she to seriously think about how she was going to proceed with her career.

  Her little fantasy in the car when they’d been travelling earlier—about them being husband and wife—had been totally ridiculous and unhelpful. Freya wasn’t interested in having another relationship—and, not only that, the mere idea of getting married again was enough to make her shudder. No…she would avoid entanglement at all costs, she decided firmly, and concentrate on making her future as good as she could make it, knowing that she was going to stay a single woman for a very long time.

  But even as she laid her folded T-shirts and underwear into a lined drawer that smelled of lavender, Freya couldn’t help wondering why it was that a man as dynamic and attractive as Nash lived alone. Was he in a relationship at the moment? she mused. Her hands stilled over the drawer to properly reflect upon the matter. Just because he lived alone it didn’t signify that he wasn’t seeing someone. Perhaps he had been married, divorced, or even widowed and at the moment was unattached? And what had happened to the daring beauty who had shoehorned herself into that outrageous dress at the party?

  Before she knew what she’d intended, Freya found herself gravitating towards the window again, to rest her gaze on the man whose charismatic presence was so plaguing her mind. He’d left his chair and was now standing by the pool, gazing out at some distant viewpoint that she couldn’t immediately fathom. As she continued to stare—her body only too intimately aware of the stunning impact of his tanned, golden good looks— Nash moved his head ever so slightly. In the next second he was staring back at her, his sensual lips unsmiling and his fathomless blue eyes locked onto hers as though he had discovered something far more compelling than whatever he had been looking at earlier to rest his gaze upon.

  Hurriedly moving away from the window, Freya suddenly felt as if her limbs had lost all their strength and she was standing upright by sheer will alone…

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That huge bird! It looks like some kind of bird of prey.’

  ‘It’s a heron…you see a lot of them round here.’

  Reaching for his wine glass, Nash sipped a little of the dry red wine that was made locally and of which his rustic wine cellar contained a generous amount. They were sitting outside the front of the house, around an octagonal wooden table with matching chairs and a huge green umbrella they’d agreed to dispense with as the sun started to set. The air was swiftly cooling after a day of hot Mediterranean sunshine, but he was quite content to sit outside and bask in the scenery. He included Freya in that, and told himself he was only human.

  She was wearing a pink thin-strapped sundress that showed off her slender arms and great shoulders to perfection. Never let it be said that a woman’s shoulders couldn’t be as sexy as hell, he thought with unashamed appreciation. Her sunglasses now positioned on the top of her head, she was squinting up at the sky—intent on watching the heron she’d spotted glide gracefully on the calm, still air. Just now she radiated the same excitement as a child who had discovered something new and fascinating—some amazing titbit of information that she could add to the growing storehouse of interesting facts and figures she was busy accumulating. He found himself smiling as he observed her.

  ‘Isn’t that an oak tree over there?’ Lowering her glance, she pointed at a towering specimen just beyond the swimming pool.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I somehow expected the trees to be different to the varieties we have at home. Silly, I know.’ She blushed and reached for a piece of baguette that had been left over from their alfresco supper. She had not, Nash observed, so much as touched a drop of the wine in her glass yet.

  ‘You like trees?’ he asked.

  ‘I just love being out in nature.’ She lifted her shoulders and dropped them again, carefully breaking some bread between her fingers, as if reflecting on something that belied the joy she had just expressed. ‘Unfortunately my crazy life often prevented me from enjoying it as much as I would have liked to. I regret that.’

  ‘Well, now you have it all on the doorstep. What would you like to do tomorrow after breakfast? Go for a walk? There’s a little church not far from here that you might like to take a look at.’

  ‘I’d love that!’

  She had that little-girl joy on her face again, and Nash knew it wasn’t just the wine that was warming his blood. Straightening in his chair, he settled his gaze into the same intense examination of her features as an artist about to paint her portrait.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  ‘Do you have to ask?’ he challenged.

  ‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I’m looking at you because, inevitably, your beauty is distracting me.’

  She dipped her head for a moment, clearly discomfited. Nash thought it seemed strange that receiving compliments might disturb her.

  ‘Looks don’t mean much at the end of the day…not really. I know the profession I was in doesn’t really bear that out—especially where women are concerned—but it’s what’s on the inside that’s important…don’t you think?’

  The way she asked the question made him realise she was anxious to have her view confirmed. Her insecurities about being accepted for herself were easy to detect. She didn’t want to be admired for her looks alone. Freya needed to know that she was admired for the person she was. Nash didn’t suppose for one second that her painful dalliance with James Frazier had helped her case any.

  ‘True. But all th
e same I don’t necessarily go with the “looks don’t matter” argument. Everyone—man, woman or child—is engaged by beauty. You don’t have to be defensive about the assets God gave you. They were bestowed on you…and the world…to appreciate.’

  ‘That heron flying by just now…commanding the sky with such grace…that’s real beauty.’

  ‘Ever thought that he might be looking down at you and thinking the same thing?’

  His teasing raised goosebumps on her bared skin, and Freya shivered. Not only did this man rob her of the ability to keep her mind on her train of thought, but his low, sexy voice, easily suggestive of smoky bar rooms and hot, no-holds-barred lovemaking in the most unconventional places, definitely drove the point home. Perhaps she shouldn’t have so readily agreed to come to France with him after all? This breathtakingly lovely place that was clearly his own private refuge from the rest of the world was far too seductive to her already fascinated senses…as was he. Perhaps the situation—the two of them alone together for an indefinite amount of time in an isolated farmhouse—was simply asking for trouble?

  ‘Aren’t you going to drink your wine?’ he prompted when she stayed silent.

  Registering her untouched glass, Freya shook her head. ‘I don’t really drink much…just the very occasional glass.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  She was stunned by the intense wave of anguish that swept over her at the thought that he didn’t. If that was the case, then why was he agreeing to help mend her reputation? Was it only to appease her uncle? If he thought she had a drink problem, as James had often told the press, maybe he believed she took drugs too? Her stomach recoiled in protest.