'I'm quite capable of dealing with him!' she said, stiffening. 'I'm only here for another couple of days, I can assure you I'm coping with things perfectly well.'
Brendan grimaced wryly. 'That sounds to me like a prepared speech,' he told her.
'Don't be silly!'
'You sound like someone whistling in the dark,' Brendan added. 'Your father's worried about you.'
'Dad?' She searched his face anxiously. 'Did he say so?'
'Every time you ring he looks worried,' Brendan told her. 'He hasn't needed to tell me anything. I can read his face.'
Quincy walked to the window and stared down into the busy street below. 'Maybe he picked up that I was feeling rather fed up,' she said. 'The magazine editor has been hustling me around London like a sheepdog with a stray sheep and I was sick of it.'
'You've done something to your hair,' Brendan noticed. 'I like it,' he added. 'It's very pretty like that.'
'Thank you,' said Quincy, turning to smile at him. It was very kind of him to come all this way with an idea of protecting her, even if it was galling that he should feel she needed protection.
His face brightened as he saw that her first flare of irritation had faded. 'I suppose you wouldn't come out and show me London?' he asked. 'We could have lunch somewhere.'
She hesitated, her eyes on the couch behind him, then her face hardened. Last night she had come very close to giving Joe Aldonez what he wanted and she was not so innocent that she didn't realise he might have been playing with her, deliberately exaggerating his own weariness in order to seduce her. Quincy looked ahead to the next few days, alarmed. Joe had somehow gained an advantage over her last night. In the dangerous duel between them he had snatched several points from her without her understanding what was happening. He might well plan to wage a campaign from now on which, he could hope, would end in Quincy weakly surrendering. Maybe Brendan was right. Maybe Joe was ruthless. How could she be certain either way? She barely knew him; she knew Brendan. Only a blind fool would trust a man whose background was so different from her own.
Brendan saw the uncertainty in her eyes. 'Please, Quincy,' he pressed, and she nodded.
'Okay, I'll get ready—where did you want to go?'
'You're my guide,' he said, looking delighted. 'What should I see? The weather is so terrific I thought we could go for a trip on the river.'
'I haven't done that yet,' Quincy said. 'I'd love it— you get the boat from Charing Cross. If the tide is right you can go up river towards Windsor, but if the river is too high you have to go down towards the sea. Whichever way you go, you get a great view of London.'
When they left the flat, she saw that Brendan had not been exaggerating—the morning had that clear, bright freshness which spring sometimes gives to surprise you, the sky cloudless blue, the wind brisk but not sharp, and the trees along the Embankment bursting out into full leaf, it seemed, overnight.
'Why don't we walk to Charing Cross?' Brendan suggested, so they walked quickly along the river, following the twists and turns of it as it lay chained within the old concrete walls rising from the river bank. On the far side of the water, the windows of office blocks flashed back the sunlight at them, and a motorboat chugged past, dipping and rising on the choppy waves.
'What have you been up to while you've been here?' Brendan asked, and she told him with wry self-mockery.
'I felt a fool,' she ended, and Brendan looked at her, nodding.
'I'm not surprised. They're using you.'
'I'm not that much of a fool,' Quincy snapped. 'I realised that. I'm angry with myself for agreeing to come here in the first place, but I let myself be talked into it, and now it's too late to back out.' She stopped, sighing. 'There are only another few days to go then I'll be back home,' she ended, wishing her heart did not sink as she said that.
They reached Charing Cross to find that the only boat available was going down past St Paul's and Tower Bridge since the tide was not right in the other direction. Although the weather was bright, the water was far from calm and the trip was distinctly lively. Quincy and Brendan sat on the open deck, clinging to the rail, watching the grey waves churning along the side of the hull. The London skyline edged the river on each side, many of the landmarks so familiar that they did not need the voice of the guide on the tannoy to point them out. Quincy stared in horrified fascination at the crumbling old wharf which had once been the scene of executions during the dangerous time when pirates sailed the seas of the world. Convicted pirates had been chained to the dock to await the rising tide which would drown them, the guide told them, making her shudder.
'I went to the London Dungeon yesterday,' she told Brendan. 'The waxworks are all frightening; executions and murders, the most horrible scenes. I couldn't wait to get out.'
'Have you been to the Tower?' Brendan asked, and she nodded.
'Carmen Lister took me there.'
The boat turned back to Charing Cross half an hour later. Quincy was huddled in her coat, her skin whipped icily by the freshening wind blowing from the sea. On either bank she saw the flat, featureless marshes of Essex stretching away to a grey horizon, seabirds rising at the river edge, from the muddy shores, their spread wings flapping as they took flight.
When they reached Charing Cross again, they disembarked, walking stiffly at first before they accustomed themselves to being back on dry land. They had lunch at a popular restaurant near Trafalgar Square, traffic swirling past noisily.
'Where are you staying, Brendan?' she asked as they drank their coffee.
'A small hotel near Regent's Park,' he said. 'It's quite quiet there at night.'
Quincy glanced at her watch, frowning. 'I ought to go back to the flat in case I've been missed—Carmen Lister said she would ring me this afternoon and tell me what plans they have.'
As they left the restaurant a taxi swung past and Brendan hailed it. Quincy climbed in with more haste than common sense, and banged her head violently on the edge of the door. She sank into the seat, holding her hand to the throbbing bruise. Brendan clambered after her, told the driver where to take them, and asked Quincy anxiously if she was badly hurt.
'I'll be okay,' she said, but her head was aching so much she could not speak again for a whole minute.
It only took the taxi five minutes to cover the ground from Trafalgar Square to the flat in Chelsea and as it came to a halt outside the building Brendan got out and helped Quincy to descend, his arm around her waist. He paid the driver and looked down at her with a worried frown.
'I hope you haven't got concussion—that was quite a knock you took.'
'It's wearing off,' she said, forcing a smile.
'I'll see you into the flat,' Brendan decided firmly. 'You'd better lie down for a while—head injuries, however slight, can be dangerous.'
'Don't fuss, Brendan,' she said, then regretted speaking so sharply as he looked at her with silent reproach. 'Sorry,' she added quickly. 'Maybe you're right.'
'Does it hurt much now?'
'Not that much,' she said as they walked into the building. She swayed very slightly as the throb from the wound began again and Brendan's arm steadied her, drawing her closer. She leaned on him, slanting a grateful smile up at him, then saw his face change as his eyes moved from her face to that of the man confronting them.
Quincy's head swung that way, too, her breath catching sharply as she took in Joe's frowning face. She had never seen that expression in it before, it startled her. He wore a savage, hostile scowl, those dark eyes icy little chips of lightless black beneath his drawn brows.
'Where the hell have you been all morning?' he ground out between straight, unsmiling lips which only just parted to let the words through.
CHAPTER FIVE
For a beat of time, Quincy was speechless in the face of the angry question, then she, in turn, grew angry, her eyes very bright in her flushed face as she stared back at him.
'How dare you yell at me like that? Who do you think you are? I've every
right to go out if I want to, I'm not owned by anybody but myself and I'll go where I like. If you object, I'll pack my case and go home, Mr Aldonez!' The words tumbled over each other making them almost inaudible if it wasn't for the fact that she flung them at him so loudly that he couldn't help but understand them.
His features darkened even further, she heard the savage snap of his teeth as they came together. 'Don't you scream at me, Quincy!' he snarled.
'If you can scream, so can I,' she retorted.
He took a long stride, his body pulsating with the rage she saw in his face. 'Now look here…'
'No,' Brendan interrupted, stepping in front of her and facing Joe, his shoulders squared, bristling with aggression. 'You look, Mr Aldonez—if you push her around you'll have me to answer to!'
Quincy heard the sudden softness of Joe's voice and a quiver of alarm ran through her. 'Oh, will I?' said Joe, almost purring, like a crouched panther just waiting for the chance to spring on an unwary victim who has wandered innocently into its path.
'Quincy isn't under any obligation to you,' Brendan informed him. 'You don't now her.'
'Do you?' Joe asked in that soft voice, and Quincy heard the hidden pulse of danger beneath the gentle tones, her skin going cold.
Brendan hesitated, but only for a second. 'If you mean, is she my girl—yes, not that it's any business of yours.'
Quincy was shaken and drew a quick breath to deny it, but Joe did not give her time to choose her words.
'I see,' he said, the syllables dragging out of him so slowly that her teeth ached with the tension of wondering what was going on inside his head. She could not see his face, Brendan stood between them, but she shifted sideways to get a glimpse of him and found him staring at Brendan dangerously, his jaw set.
As she moved, his eyes slid sideways to touch her face, and Quincy flinched at the cold contempt she saw in his gaze.
'Why did you want me?' she faltered, hating the way he looked at her so much she felt sick.
'Carmen had set up some publicity shots,' Joe told her in a curt voice. 'I was rehearsing at the hall all morning and she thought it would be a good idea to have you there, but we couldn't track you down. Even your sister had no idea where you were.'
'She left before Brendan arrived,' Quincy mumbled. 'I hadn't expected…'
'I arrived without warning,' Brendan broke in, putting an arm protectively around her shoulders. 'It never occurred to either of us that anyone would worry.'
'Didn't it?' Joe demanded in that clipped, terse voice, somehow conveying that he did not believe Brendan.
'No!' Quincy assured him, faint pleading in her green eyes. 'Carmen said she'd ring me this afternoon. I thought I would be free all morning, and when Brendan arrived and suggested we went on a trip down the river I didn't think twice.'
'You're here to do publicity for us,' Joe said scathingly. 'We promised your father that we'd keep an eye on you—how do you think we felt when you vanished off the face of the earth, leaving no clue where you had gone?'
'I'm sorry, I hadn't looked at it like that,' she admitted.
'You should have left a message,' Joe flung at her. 'Going off alone without saying a word to anyone was the height of lunacy.'
'Aren't you making mountains out of molehills?' Brendan asked him impatiently.
'Who asked your opinion?' demanded Joe, turning on him, the powerful set of his shoulders declaring battle.
'I'm giving it anyway,' Brendan informed him, glaring back with a similar expression.
'Don't bother,' snapped Joe. 'Keep your opinions to yourself.'
'Talk to me like that and…' Brendan began, and Joe leaned towards him, smiling tightly.
'And what?' he asked.
'And you'll get a punch on the nose,' Brendan promised.
Joe smiled. 'Talk costs nothing,' he mocked, and Brendan's face went brick red.
'You…' He bit off the epithet and swung at Joe, but the blow never connected. Joe moved lightly and swiftly and Brendan went crashing backwards to hit the wall behind him. Quincy gave a cry of distress and anger, running towards him. The door of a flat on the floor above had opened and an old lady peered down at them from the landing, her bright eyes fascinated.
'You brute, his head's bleeding!' Quincy exclaimed as she saw Brendan reeling upright again, his hand going to the side of his skull where a little trickle of blood had begun to show.
'What did you want me to do?' Joe asked her coldly. 'Stand still and let him smash my face in?'
'What a lovely idea,' Quincy snapped back.
'Sorry, I'm not a masochist,' Joe told her.
'I know what you are!' she said. 'You're a bully— you know you're stronger than Brendan, you knew you could knock him down with one hand tied behind your back!' Her words cut off as she heard what she had said, and, aghast, she looked at Brendan, who had gone white. Quincy could have bitten her tongue out. She saw from his face that she had hurt his feelings badly, insulted him after the blow Joe had just delivered with such crushing effect.
'Thanks,' he said, stiffening.
'Brendan, I didn't...'
She was talking to herself. Brendan had walked out of the door and with an anxious face Quincy hurried after him, realising what a stupid, thoughtless remark that had been. It wouldn't have been quite so painful to Brendan if he had not just been forced to recognise that it was the truth.
'Where are you going?' Joe asked, catching her arm as she was at the door.
'I must speak to Brendan. How could I say such a thing? Poor Brendan, he's so upset.'
'Poor Brendan will get over it,' Joe said callously, refusing to let her go as she struggled in his iron grip.
'Will you let go?' Quincy gasped, an arm flailing towards him, pulling violently to free herself.
'No,' he said coolly. 'First things first—I have things to say to you that can't wait, you can pour sympathy out over Brendan Leary some other time.'
'Don't maul me about!' Quincy yelled, fighting in real earnest now, and half aware at the back of her mind of the silent, intrigued eye-witness on the landing above. The old lady had settled down to enjoy herself, following every word as though she was watching some film on television.
'Stand still, damn you!' Joe grated, and as Quincy dragged away from him her doorkey fell from her coat pocket, clattering to the stone floor. Still holding her, Joe bent and scooped it up. He pulled her towards the door, fighting him every step of the way while their audience on the upper floor leaned over so as to make quite sure of missing nothing of what happened. With considerable difficulty, in the face of her struggles, Joe managed to insert the key into the lock without releasing her. The door swung open as he pushed it. Controlling Quincy with that steel bracelet locked around her wrist, Joe turned towards the stairs. Quincy had imagined he was unaware of being watched, but, it seemed, he was not—he gave a little bow and a charming smile.
'The performance is over, madam,' he said, and the old lady straightened, going pink.
Joe manhandled Quincy, without compunction, inside the flat and slammed the door shut behind them with his foot. Only then did he let her go, setting his back against the door as she darted forward, folding his arms across his chest, a satisfied smile on his mouth as she glared impotently at him.
'How dare you?' she seethed helplessly. 'What do you want?'
His brows swooped upwards, mockery stealing into his eyes, and between them flashed the memory of what had happened in the flat the previous evening. Quincy was even more furious at the amused reminder of her own folly. Last night she had trusted him, been lulled into a blind over-confidence about his intentions, but she was not ever going to make that mistake about him any more.
'While you're in London to do this publicity for us I don't want you wandering off alone again,' he said before she could burst out with a biting retort. 'We have to know where you are every minute of the day, and, most important of all, you must get rid of the boy-friend.'
The insolence of th
at demand made her stiffen from head to foot. 'You have no right…' she began, and was interrupted.
'I've every right. It wouldn't look good in the papers if you had another guy hanging around when you were supposed to be crazy about me.'
She gave a gasp, burning with embarrassed anger. 'If that's the impression your publicity people have been giving, they can eat their words! I'm not crazy about you…'
'Aren't you?' he intervened smoothly, but she ignored him.
'And I won't have lies like that put into Carmen's magazine! I'm going to pack my case and go home, and you can find someone else to go through this ridiculous charade. You have thousands of fans—get one of them to do it, they'll leap at the chance.'
'Too late,' Joe drawled coolly. 'The publicity is right in full swing—haven't you been reading about yourself in the papers?'
She stared, her lips parted in surprise, and he read her expression with intent-curiosity, his mouth twisting.
'Obviously not,' he said. 'Carmen has really hooked the public with her stories about you—you've caught the popular imagination. Right from that first photograph of you they were interested. Carmen's nose was right, you were a gift. It was a stroke of luck that you chose to stay with your sister, the press couldn't find you, so they had to rely on Carmen for information and she's been feeding them the sort of stuff she wanted to get into print.'
'What sort of stuff?' Quincy asked dazedly, aghast at the images he was conjuring up. What had the press been printing about her? Carmen had not breathed a word of all this, and nor had Lilli, although Lilli must have known what was going on—or had she been so involved with her rehearsals that she had missed the press stories altogether?
Joe shrugged. 'Background stories about your family and home life, about how much you love my records, how thrilled you are to actually meet me!'
Quincy turned and slowly walked into the sitting-room, sitting down before her legs gave out under her. Joe followed her and stood watching her, his long body lounging casually a foot away.
'How can you bear to let them print stories like that?' she asked bitterly, lifting her eyes to stare at him with chill hostility. 'You've made a fool of me.' In more ways than one, she reminded herself. He lived in an artificial world with a spotlight constantly surrounding him and Quincy had wandered innocently into the glare of that light, not realising at first that although her own reactions were genuine and impulsive, Joe Aldonez was never unconscious of being watched, of performing for a worldwide audience. Everything he did was a performance, Quincy thought. Outside the flat she had stupidly imagined he was unconscious of the woman watching them from the top of the stairs— she should have known better. Joe Aldonez was always aware of the eyes on him and what he did and said was never genuine.
A Wild Affair Page 8