Reputation in Tatters

by Maggie Cox

  ‘I wasn’t casting any aspersions.’ Nash’s voice was calm in contrast to the small riot that was going on inside Freya. ‘But now that the topic has come up we do need to talk about some of the things that have been said about you in the press. If I’m going to help you then I need to know everything.’

  ‘So you think I’m an alcoholic and a druggie? Is that what you’re saying? What about a neurotic, demanding, crazy woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown? Do you think I’m that too?’

  Jumping to her feet, Freya started to walk away from the table towards the house, but her desire for flight was halted when she felt her upper arm firmly commanded by a large forceful hand and she was hauled back to face a suddenly not so benign-looking Nash. Even when he dropped her arm her feet remained rooted to the ground in shock.

  ‘We’re going to get nowhere fast if you can’t have an honest discussion with me about this! I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know the truth so that I can help you!’

  ‘Are you sure it’s not just so that you can judge me, just like everybody else has judged me?’ she fired back, her dark eyes beyond hurt. ‘Is your own life so beyond any taint of blame or scandal that you can have the nerve to act like some kind of moral jury on my past conduct?’

  ‘I’m not looking to judge you! If you stopped being so damned defensive for a minute we might get somewhere!’

  They were both breathing hard. Finally Nash dropped his hands to hips that were lean and straight as an arrow and sighed. As his glance regretfully roamed the expression of acute distress on Freya’s face, he fired a question.

  ‘Do you have a drink or drug problem? If you do then I have a responsibility to help you get some proper help to deal with it.’

  ‘You mean rehab?’

  At the look of resignation that appeared Nash couldn’t deny the bolt of alarm that ricocheted through him. Following that, there was the sensation of utter bone-crushing disappointment. He had so hoped that everyone had been wrong about the drink and drug label that Freya had been tagged with, but now it seemed that the speculation in the press had some foundation after all…

  God knew his own past was hardly without taint, and he might indeed be standing in judgement—but only because he believed that she was in effect throwing her incredible ability down the toilet if she was an addict of any kind. No matter how bad things had been for Nash in the past he had never resorted to drugs—medicinal or otherwise—to ease his pain… ‘So you do have a problem?’ Shaking his head, he started to walk away a short distance, thinking hard in the twilight.

  ‘I don’t take anything other than the odd paracetamol for period pains,’ Freya asserted quietly behind him.

  Turning to regard her, Nash saw her beautiful dark eyes glisten with tears. His mouth felt dry as gravel and sawdust combined at the sight.

  ‘I barely touch alcohol and I have never in my life smoked dope or snorted cocaine or done anything similar. My ex-husband, however, spent a frightening amount of our money on all those things. What I’m telling you is absolutely true. If you feel the need—why don’t you come up and search my room? Just in case I managed to smuggle drugs on the way out here and have a secret stash squirrelled away!’ Walking right up to him, Freya prodded her finger into Nash’s chest. ‘After all…I would hate to think that your own whiter than white reputation was in any way sullied by your association with such a loser as me!’

  ‘Hey!’ His hand locked onto her wrist as she spun away and held her tight. Before he could get out the words that were furiously backing up in his brain, pure primal instinct took over and he kissed her instead. For a moment she was soft and compliant in Nash’s arms, and he felt her sag against him almost in a kind of hungry relief.

  A passionately arresting moan escaped her—the sound raising all the hairs on the surface of his skin—and then, just as he warmed to the provocative sweetness of her satin-textured lips and the taste of her tongue swirling hotly against his own, she ripped her mouth away, pushing at him hard with both hands to put some distance between them. Her breasts were straining against the thin cotton of her dress with each agitated breath, and her dark eyes were flashing angry sparks of barely contained indignation.

  ‘How dare you? Just what did you think you were doing?’

  ‘In any language I think it would be easily understood that I was kissing you.’ A throaty, gravelly cadence almost locked Nash’s throat.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ With a wry glance from his azure-blue eyes, he crossed his arms in front of his white T-shirt. The action made the muscles in his biceps bunch hard. ‘Put it down to the heat of the moment.’

  Staring at him, her agitated breath appearing to slow down, Freya closed her lips against what she might have been going to say and looked at him instead like some kind of little-girl lost.

  ‘I don’t need to come up and search your room for drugs.’ He sighed. ‘If you tell me you’re not using then I’m going to believe you unless I see evidence to change my mind. All I was trying to do was ascertain the kind of help you needed, so that I could put you in touch with the right people. That’s all. I want you to be in good shape when you pick up your career again.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Pact?’

  ‘I’m sure you can understand why I’m naturally a little prickly about the subject. Wouldn’t you be under the circumstances? It’s perfectly horrible, having people tell lies about you. And as far as picking up my career again goes…well, we’ll see. I don’t even have an agent any more—much less am I in a position to be offered any scripts to read!’

  ‘That can easily be rectified, Freya. I know plenty of agents in the business. I could ring any one of them tomorrow and get you an interview. But first you need to unwind and relax, get yourself feeling good again.’

  ‘All right.’ Smoothing her hands down the sides of her pretty cotton dress, she looked distracted for a moment, as if she didn’t quite know what to do next. Even so, Nash couldn’t attest to regretting that inflammatory kiss they’d shared just a few moments ago. Not when his whole body was still craving her touch as though it were indeed an opiate he was becoming addicted to.

  ‘I think I’ll have an early night, if you don’t mind? I’m feeling rather tired after all the travelling and everything today.’

  Without waiting for him to comment Freya turned and went back inside the house, leaving Nash to murmur a heartfelt expletive to the rapidly cooling night air…

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHE couldn’t sleep. When the dawn finally broke, Freya got up, showered and dressed, then sat quietly on her bed making a half-hearted attempt to read the book she’d brought with her.

  Once again the words blurred on the page and, more than a little exasperated, she pushed to her feet and went to the window. Opening it with as little noise as possible, she drank in the sharp cold blast of morning air and let her gaze roam the beauty of the surrounding countryside. But her mind wasn’t really on the sublime scenery. After Nash had kissed her so hungrily last night it was practically impossible to concentrate on anything else.

  She’d been so mad at him…not for the kiss…but for believing for even one second that she was some kind of unstable addict. Then, just when she’d thought he was like everyone else after all—quick to judge her and point out her faults—he’d completely confounded her with that kiss and made her melt. Freya had still been shaking when she’d climbed the stairs to her room in the aftermath.

  There was no way she could lie to herself and pretend she had been offended, even though she’d acted so indignant at the time. How could a woman not like a kiss that made her feel feminine and desirable once more after she’d started to doubt if any man would ever desire her again? Almost immediately her own hunger had risen to meet his, and the sheer desperate ache that had built inside her, so avid for release, had terrified her. If it had carried on she might easily have ended up in Nash’s bed… A breathless little sound escaped her into the freezing
air. Had she completely lost her mind?

  Distressed, Freya turned away from the window and, grabbing up her sweater, draped it round her shoulders over the blue shirt she’d donned with a pair of white jeans, then hurriedly vacated the room to go in search of some coffee…

  She didn’t mention the kiss and, taking his cue from her, Nash decided not to raise the topic either. However, from the moment he set eyes on Freya the next morning—sitting outside at the table, catching the sun’s first rays as she sipped her coffee—he was immediately aware of the tension it had wrought. It was as though he had transgressed an emblazoned prohibitive notice whose instructions had screamed Keep Out—but he’d paid no attention and committed the deed anyway.

  Now he couldn’t help cursing himself for his self-restraint being so badly knocked off kilter that he’d ended up kissing her as he had. Even though he’d been so aroused it had been painful, he knew it hadn’t been the best of moves. And he certainly didn’t make a habit of hitting on his attractive female clients. In fact he’d always made it a strict rule not to. Also, after his unwelcome suspicions about Freya’s alleged addictions, practically ravishing her on their first night away together was hardly going to help engender the kind of trust they needed to forge between them to work together. From now on, he decided, his own behaviour had to be exemplary too. And if Freya proved to become even more distracting, then Nash would just have to give her as much space as possible, so that temptation would not be put in his way too often.

  Considering he had to protect her from the paparazzi as well—it was going to be a hell of a tall order…

  Later, walking across the fields from the house on their way to the small country church Nash had spoken about, he watched her lithe figure moving just ahead of him—her straw hat hiding her mane of opulent hair and her hips swaying almost too provocatively to be borne. He clenched his jaw as a trickle of sweat meandered down the small of his back underneath his shirt.

  ‘You okay?’ he called.

  ‘I’m fine. This is great!’

  ‘The church is just up ahead. There’s the spire.’

  When they reached their destination, Freya found to her disappointment that the ponderous oak door that led into the building was emphatically locked. Several huge rusting padlocks attested to the fact that it was no longer regularly used, and both the grounds and building displayed signs of elegant dereliction.

  ‘Oh, what a shame! I was looking forward to having a look round inside.’

  ‘How do you feel about graveyards? This one is pretty interesting.’ Nash smiled.

  Appraising the opened wrought-iron gates, and seeing the tombs looming up beyond them amid long grasses and weeds, Freya nodded. Removing her glasses for a moment, she wiped away the perspiration that had accumulated on the bridge of her nose and her forehead with the back of her hand. The day was warm and steadily getting warmer. It was a far cry from the overcast skies of the drizzly London they had left behind.

  ‘Why don’t you lead the way?’ she suggested lightly—if only for the chance to watch him unobserved.

  All morning she’d had a restless tension simmering inside her—ever since he’d appeared to join her for breakfast. Over fresh coffee, French bread, fruit and cheese, Freya had eyed Nash discreetly but helplessly as they’d talked and eaten, her gaze often alighting on that sensual carved mouth of his and remembering how delicious it had felt against hers, a jolt of hungry need flashing through her insides as she did so. What was astounding was that she’d scarcely thought about her past ordeal at all—or the fact that at home stories would be appearing in the newspapers about her again, after the interview she’d given. She’d even stopped looking over her shoulder, expecting paparazzi to jump out at her from some unnoticed hiding place. It was a revelation.

  Now, following Nash into the churchyard, she found her attention reluctantly diverted by the presence of the large tombs that lay all around them. The ponderous stone cases were worn and weathered and strewn with lichen and moss, and several of them had pictures of the deceased family members entombed inside them, along with ornate tributes that included fake flowers fashioned out of plastic. An oppressive feeling started to gather strength in Freya at the sight of them, and she found herself wanting to leave. The realisation that they were family tombs slightly disturbed her—especially when she saw that some of the pictures were of children.

  ‘It’s too sad…can we go?’ she asked, a betraying quiver in her voice.

  ‘Sure.’ Waiting for her to precede him out through the ornate iron gates, Nash frowned. ‘I’m sorry if that upset you,’ he remarked, his jaw set as he considered her from behind the dark shades that shielded his incredible eyes. ‘I just thought you might find it interesting how differently they do things.’

  ‘It was the pictures of the children,’ Freya admitted.

  ‘Yeah…I know. You like kids?’

  ‘Very much. I always wanted to have at least three or four. I suppose, being an only child, a part of me always longed to have a brother or sister to play with. How about you? Do you want a family one day? Or maybe you already have kids?’

  Nash couldn’t fail to sense her intense regard behind the huge dark glasses. He couldn’t deny the feeling of deep-rooted resistance that rose up inside him on the subject of having children of his own. He was thirty-six, and time was marching on, but he didn’t know if he’d ever be ready to face the daunting prospect of being a father. The gut-wrenching experience of his own childhood as far as substitute fathers were concerned was enough to put him off the idea for life. And whilst Nash very much enjoyed women, and had had a few relationships—admittedly not long-lasting ones—he really didn’t view himself as marriage material. Perhaps the truth was that he enjoyed the single life of a bachelor too much? Anyway…he had not met a woman so far that he wanted to share the rest of his life with. It interested him deeply, however, that Freya had confessed to wanting several children.

  ‘I don’t have any kids of my own, and I haven’t really thought about changing that status quo any time soon,’ he quipped, his tone wry.

  ‘You’re not—you’re not in a relationship?’

  ‘No. I broke up with my last girlfriend about six months ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Nash shrugged, slightly taken aback that she should ask him why. He didn’t usually discuss his personal life with anyone—not even his mother. ‘She wanted a bit more commitment than I was prepared to give,’ he said truthfully, not liking the sensation of being suddenly put under a microscope, and slightly regretting that the truth had slipped out so easily.

  ‘So…you’re the kind of guy that likes to travel light, as they say? Isn’t that how they describe men who have trouble committing to a relationship and like to play the field?’

  As he registered the contemptuous tone in her arresting voice, a stab of anger shot through Nash. Where the hell did she get off, making such crass assumptions about him?

  ‘Let’s get back, shall we? Perhaps you’d like a swim in the pool instead of a walk?’ He started to walk on ahead, down the deserted road that led back to the fields they had crossed from the farmhouse, and didn’t spare a glance to see if she was following.

  ‘You don’t like talking about yourself, do you?’ she demanded.

  Nash kept walking, the back of his neck prickling hotly.

  ‘My life is an open book—people can say whatever they please about me and that’s okay—but you—you can’t even have a decent conversation with me about yourself!’

  He stopped. Slowly he turned, his hands on his hips, knowing acutely that she’d pressed a very hot button as far as his private life was concerned. Not talking enough about himself was an accusation that had come up time and time again in nearly all of his previous relationships. But to Nash his past was not some light aperitif on a conversation menu. It caused him too much grief for it ever to be included casually in an exchange.

  ‘I didn’t bring you here to talk about mys
elf, Freya,’ he said evenly. ‘I brought you here so that you could get out of the limelight for a while and think about your future. When we get back to the house I have to leave you for a while, to go into town, but when I return we’ll sit down and discuss some ideas. Deal?’

  He was deliberately being all business again, and something in Freya baulked at that—even though he was right and that’s why she’d come to France with him.

  ‘What happened to the girl at the party?’ she asked mutinously, whipping off her straw hat and pushing her fingers through the long dark mane of hair that suddenly tumbled like heavy silk over her shoulders. ‘What girl?’

  It was clear he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the question—especially when he’d probably assumed he’d successfully deflected any more personal enquiries. Freya chewed down a little on her softly shaped lower lip before replying. ‘The very clingy little blonde who couldn’t take her eyes off you!’

  ‘She was nobody important.’

  ‘How flattering for the poor girl!’

  ‘I meant that we weren’t dating. She was just a friend.’

  ‘Did she realise that distinction?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  Freya shrugged. ‘I was just interested to know if you ever brought her here to the house?’

  Nash’s body visibly stilled. ‘I don’t bring anybody out here but myself,’ he answered.

  Digesting that reluctantly offered titbit, Freya refused to be satisfied with such provocative fare without wanting more.

  ‘If that’s so…then why did you bring me here?’

  ‘You needed some privacy…this was the best place I could think of to get you some. Any more questions, or are we done?’ With the flat of his hand Nash palmed the sweat away from his glistening forehead. Freya had no doubt she had irritated him intensely.

  ‘Don’t you miss having someone special in your life to share this lovely place with?’ She surprised even herself with her dogged persistence to weasel out more personal information about Nash’s life. ‘Do you miss having “someone special” in your life?’ he shot back, turning the tables on her.