by Penny Jordan
‘I think he’ll find he’s bought a pig in a poke if he does,’ had been her dry response. The male sex held no attraction for her. It was as though her emotions had frozen that day on the beach with Chase Lorimer and they had remained in that deep-frozen state every since. Oh, she was not as naïve as she had been then; she had shared kisses, quite pleasurably, with her dates, wondering with fine irony if her lips left them as cold as theirs left her, and then assuming that they probably did when they made no attempts to take their lovemaking any further. But then she had perfected the art of repelling their advances almost before they were made. She cultivated a cool remote air that could sometimes have the effect of wiping the smile entirely from a man’s eyes; a subtle trick of looking at them as though she somehow found them wanting; rejecting them before they ever got the chance to reject her.
Only she knew of those long-drawn-out hours of the night when she lay awake brought face to face with her own deep insecurities, the knowledge that her make-up lacked some elemental component. She was a woman in every sense but the truest one. A cold, aloof, animated statue was how one of her dates had disgustedly described her, and she knew it was true. She had no inner warmth or fire with which to attract or hold a man, and rather than submit to the degradation of one of them discovering the truth, she preferred to hold herself completely aloof. Like some Cinderella awaiting the magic kiss which could free her from her body’s icy indifference, she mocked herself as she folded her father’s paper and excused herself from the table. She was half-way through a particularly complicated programme, and wanted to get it finished.
The room she worked in was furnished in soft feminine colours and fabrics, soft yellow walls; a settee covered in an attractive yellow and blue print, and a toning blue carpet. The bank of computer equipment she used to work on was in a small room off her study, and as she made her way there she stopped to pick up the receiver of the ringing telephone.
‘Stan Fellows here from the Globe, Miss MacDonald,’ she heard a male voice announce. ‘How do you feel about going to Qu’Hoor?’
The Globe reporter wasn’t the first to ring her after the leaked announcement of her father’s appointment, and for his sake Somer had made a point of dealing with their questions in a pleasant but non-committal manner. She explained politely that as it was not yet official that her father had the appointment, she was not able to make any formal comment.
‘Not even when I tell you that Clinton Towers has been quoted as saying that a spell in the desert might help you thaw out a bit?’
Mentally seething Somer forced herself not to retaliate. Clinton Towers had been in line for a directorship with Sefton Oil several months ago, and had tried to consolidate his position by dating Somer. She hadn’t been at all deceived. It had happened too often before and the fine intelligence she had had at eighteen had been honed over the years almost to the point of a sixth sense which told her when she was being used.
When she had heard that Clinton Towers was boasting that Sir Duncan would soon be his father-in-law, Somer had felt obliged to take action. Unfortunately Clinton had been unwise enough to make his boast in the hearing of another journalist who had lost no time in publishing it, followed a matter of days later by the gleeful revelation that far from being on the point of announcing her engagement, Somer MacDonald had been overheard to say that one oilman in the family was enough and that she had no intention of marrying another. Clinton had come storming round to see her, and during the ensuing row had left her in no doubt at all just what he had found attractive about her. She hadn’t seen Clinton since and had presumed that their final scene was the end of the matter. Now she realised she had been wrong. There was nothing quite so vindictive as a small-minded, spurned male, she decided, fingers curling tightly round the receiver as she fought for control, finally saying smoothly, ‘Mr Towers’s views are his own and he is perfectly free to voice them if he so chooses.’
Realising that he was not going to get anything out of her the journalist hung up. Sighing Somer walked through to her equipment. She would be glad when her father’s appointment was made official. She hadn’t realised how much strain would be involved in keeping the press at bay until it was. The problem was that the appointment was a very sensitive issue, partly because of Qu’Hoor itself and partly because of Foreign Office disapproval. They would be waiting to leap on any slip, or faux pas her father made; any small morsel of gossip which might back up their claim that he was not the right choice.
Grimly she started to work, but she could not concentrate. Pushing aside her work she wandered back into her study and poured herself a cup of coffee from the bubbling percolator. Her father’s secretary had brought her mail in and she flicked through it in a desultory fashion, slitting the envelopes methodically and removing the contents.
Most of her correspondence related to work she had on hand, or queries as to whether she intended to continue with her work if she left the country. There was also a bank statement showing a pleasantly healthy balance, a postcard from a friend on holiday in the Seychelles, and finally the last letter. Spiky, imperious writing slashed across the envelope, and she frowned, not recognising it, yet wondering why she should feel this faint prickling of alarm.
Almost reluctantly she removed the notepaper from inside, noting that it was thick and expensive. As she smoothed out the single sheet her eyes dropped automatically to the signature at the bottom. It was like receiving a stunning blow in the chest. Her breath strangled in her throat, her heart seizing up between heartbeats as she studied the heavy black script disbelievingly. Chase Lorimer, what on earth was he writing to her for?
At first she had winced every time she saw his name in print, feeling almost sick with shame and humiliation, but gradually she had learned to cope with the almost violent emotions the sight of his name aroused. Two years ago there had been an announcement in the press to the effect that he was leaving the world of fashion photography and taking up a directorship with a newly formed television company. Not that it had seemed to make much difference, she thought, dry-mouthed. He still seemed to be photographed just as much, always with a beautiful female companion hanging adoringly on his arm. But why had he written to her?
She read his note quickly, and then again with stunned disbelief. He wanted to see her? But why? Why now, after all this time? When she first left Jersey she had started up every time the phone or doorbell rang, dreading hearing from him in case he revealed her foolish behaviour to her father, but gradually as time went by she had ceased to fear. So why did she feel something that was close to terror icing through her veins now? Why had he got in touch with her? Had he seen her photograph in the papers and recognised her? It was a possibility but it didn’t explain his curt note, asking…no, commanding, she corrected herself wryly, that she call on him at his flat. ‘Six o’clock sharp on the 23rd’, it stated, but it was not that that brought the searing dread rushing over her, it was the brief paragraph that followed. ‘If you can’t make the appointment, I shall call on you at your home.’ Innocuous enough words, so why did she have the unshakeable feeling that they contained a subtle threat? Shivering she glanced at her calendar. Today was the 23rd. It was tonight that he wanted to see her. She had two options open to her. She could simply not go, which was what she wanted to do, but if she took that course, she ran the risk of him appearing at the house, perhaps bumping into her father who would naturally be curious. She had never once mentioned Chase Lorimer’s name in connection with her visit to Jersey, and if Chase did so… She bit her lip, her mind turning in panicky circles. She knew her father had not totally accepted her explanation that her engagement with Andrew had been broken off by mutual consent because they had both realised they had made a mistake, but the whole episode had been far too painful for her to discuss with anyone and he had acceded to her plea that they simply did not talk about it.
And she knew it would be foolhardy to place any reliance on Chase Lorimer simply making an idle threat when he
said he would come to the house. Even at eighteen she had had some intelligence, and what she remembered of him told her that he was a man who meant exactly what he said.
A knock on her door startled her, her apprehension showing when she opened it. Her father’s housekeeper stood outside, a tray holding Somer’s lunch in her hand.
‘My goodness,’ she exclaimed with a smile, ‘you are looking fierce. Is something wrong?’
Mrs McLeod had been with them in Aberdeen and had moved with them to London. She was the nearest thing to an older female confidante that Somer had ever had, and she grimaced slightly, glancing into a mirror, stunned by the wild glitter in her eyes, and the hectic rose colour warming her normally pale skin. Even her hair seemed to have reacted to Chase Lorimer’s cryptic note, adding to her tempestuous appearance.
‘Nothing at all, just a sudden bout of temper,’ she told the housekeeper ruefully, watching the grey eyebrows rise. Somer wasn’t given to bouts of temper, sudden or otherwise, and Sarah McLeod’s mobilely lifted eyebrows expressed her disbelief. She liked Somer and being more intuitive than her father had instantly noticed the change in her after her engagement had been broken off, putting her own interpretation on Somer’s sudden withdrawal inside the protective shell she had carried round with her ever since.
‘Will you both be in for dinner?’
‘Umm. Yes… That is, I have to go out later this afternoon but I shouldn’t be gone very long.’
It wasn’t until the words left her mouth that Somer realised she had made her decision. Once made it ought to have been easy for her to settle down and concentrate on her work—previously a never-failing means of blocking out things she would rather not think about—but on this occasion Chase Lorimer’s sudden intrusion into her life was too powerful for her to blot out. She shuddered, images she would rather not remember crowding vividly into her mind. Had she really pleaded with him to make love to her? It seemed like a wildly impossible dream now—a nightmare more like, and, yes, it had been true, despite the fact that she would rather believe it had not. What was it about the man that gave him the power to affect her so profoundly that even Mrs McLeod had been aware of the change in her appearance?
She got up and prowled round her sitting-room like a nervous cat, refusing to find comfort in the softly pretty colours, glancing at herself in the mirror she used to check her appearance before meeting anyone. Her dark hair which she normally wore in a soft coil was loose, her eyes normally so cool, deeply violet, her mouth surely fuller and softer than normal. Five years had fined down her body revealing her elegant bone structure. Breasts which she privately thought too full were subtly disguised by the blouse she wore. High-necked and long-sleeved its pale amethyst colour matched her eyes, her straight cream skirt skimming the narrow bones of her hips and ending well below her knees. Quietly elegant was how her father described her choice of clothes. Once or twice he had urged her to try something a little more daring but she had always refused.
At four o’clock she went upstairs, rifling through her wardrobe, looking for something suitable to wear. In the end she chose a well-cut black suit and picked out a white blouse to wear with it, carefully brushing her hair into a smooth coil, and standing back to study the finished effect, inwardly congratulating herself when she saw her reflection.
Yes, the whole effect was very cool and remote. No one seeing her dressed like this could ever, ever mistake her for a tearful flushed eighteen-year-old, begging to be made love to.
‘Going somewhere?’ her father asked curiously when she bumped into him in the hallway. ‘I didn’t know you were out this evening.’
‘Something cropped up,’ Somer explained vaguely, knowing her father would assume that she was going out on business and not wanting to commit herself to a direct lie. ‘But I should be back in time for dinner.’
‘Umm, I’m not sure if I’m going to make it though. I got a call from the PM’s secretary this afternoon—urgent meetings tonight. It seems the FO are still making protesting noises about my appointment. Tonight I’m going to talk to the Qu’Hoorian Ambassador Sheikh Najur Ben Zayad—he’s an extremely strict Muslim and apparently a force to be reckoned with in Qu’Hoor.’
‘Yes, his appointment’s a fairly recent one, isn’t it?’ Somer asked him. ‘I remember reading about it. Wasn’t there some sort of fuss about one of his daughters?’
‘She wanted to attend a western university. Apparently the Sheikh was working in America at the time, and there was some suggestion from him that he though the Americans had been influencing his daughter to rebel. She was at school there. I suspect tonight’s meeting is going to be something of a personal vetting.’ Sir Duncan frowned and Somer walked across to him, smiling lovingly.
‘You really want this post, don’t you?’ she said softly.
‘Does it show so much?’ He sighed. ‘I must admit I’d be terribly disappointed if I didn’t get it now. I’ve gone as far as I can with Sefton Oil—it can function perfectly well without me now, and I enjoyed most the days when we were building it up. This ambassadorship will be a new challenge. Scots always enjoy travelling—we’re nation builders in every sense of the word, and I suppose I’m idealistic enough to hope that I could do something to ensure unity between Britain and Qu’Hoor.’
It wasn’t very far from her father’s St John’s Wood house to the address Chase Lorimer had given her; in fact the drive seemed alarmingly brief. Somer had elected to drive herself; the sporty Mercedes she had bought for herself out of her own earnings. The shiny scarlet car was her pride and joy, although she managed to conceal the fact under a coolly matter-of-fact exterior.
After consulting her A to Z she found the address without too much difficulty. Chase Lorimer lived not in a modern apartment block as she had imagined but in a gracious terrace of houses overlooking the river. Slowing down to a crawl she searched for a parking spot almost right outside. At exactly six o’clock she stepped out of her car and locked it, walking as calmly as she could up the brief flight of steps to the shiny black front door. A brass doorknocker in the shape of a gargoyle confronted her and lifting it decisively she rapped smartly on the door. The sound was dying away slowly when she heard sounds of movement inside. The door opened inwards and she hovered reluctantly on the doorstep, suddenly seized by alarm.
‘Exactly on time,’ a deep male voice that sent shivers of recognition down her spine drawled. ‘Please come in. I wondered when I saw you sitting outside whether you were having second thoughts.’
It was distinctly unnerving to know that he had watched her sitting in her car; and had perhaps witnessed the vulnerability of her face when she had thought herself unobserved.
A brief touch on her arm sent tension coiling through her. ‘Look, I haven’t got much time, just tell me why you wanted to see me, will you?’
‘Perhaps I wanted to see if the reality was as beautiful as your photographs,’ he said suavely, reaching above her head to push open a door. ‘Surely you’ve got time to sit down and have a drink?’
She stiffened and glanced frostily into his relaxed face. Five years ago she had been struck by his sexuality, but her reaction then had been nothing compared to the assault on her senses his masculinity afforded now. She could feel the shock of it reverberating the length of her body, jolting down her tense spine. Nothing about him had changed. His eyes were still that same deep, dark jade, his skin tanned, his mouth curling with the sardonic amusement she remembered so vividly. His body was as lean and hard-muscled as ever, although the clothes were different, a well tailored suit and a crisp white shirt replacing the jeans and shirts she remembered. Studying him surreptitiously through her lashes, Somer felt her pulses thud out a warning. This man was dangerous; he had been dangerous five years ago and he was even more dangerous now.
As she watched, he shot back a snowy cuff and studied the gold watch strapped to his wrist calmly. ‘It’s now five minutes past six,’ he informed her, ‘and we’ve already wasted five minut
es of your valuable time. Of course,’ he continued smoothly, ‘I appreciate your need to make an inventory…’ Hot colour bloomed in her face. So he hadn’t missed the fact that she was studying him. ‘I’ve been making one of my own.’ His eyes slid with deliberate purpose over her body, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘Very effective,’ he drawled. ‘You look like an extremely cool, controlled lady.’
‘Probably because I am,’ Somer retorted, goaded by the mockery in his look, but getting a grip on her runaway temper almost immediately. ‘Look, I don’t know why you wanted to see me.’
‘All in good time. First a drink…’
Somehow he was behind her, leaving her no alternative but to turn through the door into the elegantly furnished drawing-room. The cool blues and creams with the odd touch of rose to warm up the colour-scheme had been chosen with care and a subtle eye to colour. The furnishings were traditional and somehow surprising. If she had taken the time to consider the sort of background Chase Lorimer would choose, which she hadn’t, she would have picked out a modern apartment, starkly furnished with modern eye-catching furniture, not this under-stated elegance; these rich colours and beautiful antiques.
‘You look very at home sitting there,’ he commented, as he walked over to a concealed cabinet and opened it.
‘It hardly matters whether I look at home here or not,’ Somer retorted icily. ‘Will you please tell me what you want…?’
‘Oh I think it does…’ Chase mused, ignoring the second part of her speech. ‘You see I want you to feel at home here, Somer, after all that’s what this house is going to be—your home. At least when we’re not living in the country. I have a house there too you know.’
‘What…’ Somer’s mouth gaped, her mind racing in its frantic efforts to follow his conversation.