by Liz Fielding
‘No, Sophie. It isn’t. But I haven’t flung your camera into the sea. It’s quite safe for the time being.’ He opened one of a pair of doors and ushered her into a room similar in size and shape to his bedroom. Perhaps it was slightly larger, thirty or forty feet long, but the evening had closed in and the soft illumination from the lamp on a table didn’t reach that far. ‘Sit down.’ He waved her to a chair. ‘You’d better make yourself at home.’
Home! Of all the nerve… And she’d sit when she was good and ready; she had far more important things on her mind than sitting down. ‘What about my films?’ she demanded. He hadn’t mentioned them and she feared the worst.
‘Black or white?’ he responded aggravatingly, as he lifted the heavy silver coffee-pot.
‘Neither–they were colour transparencies,’ she snapped.
‘So they were.’ He relented a little as he saw dismay cloud her eyes. ‘They still are. For the moment. Sit down, Sophie.’
She remained where she was. ‘What are you going to do with them?’ she insisted.
He put down the coffee-pot and moved towards her with an air of purpose. Before she realised what he was about to do, could utter a protest, he had scooped her up into his arms and carried her towards a large squashy leather chair and dumped her in it. The moment was brief, over almost before she could register the pleasurable warmth of his bare arm against the back of her knees, the thud of his heartbeat as, for a second or two, her cheek had been pressed against the broad expanse of his chest.
Instinctively she drew her knees to her chin and curled up in a self-protective attitude. She wasn’t used to a man being able to light her up with nothing more than a touch, a look. She didn’t like the power it gave him. It frightened her. But she said nothing. She’d got the message loud and clear. Do as she was told. Sophie hid her pique under lowered lids as he returned to the coffee-pot.
‘Black or white?’ He repeated the question as if nothing unusual had happened. Her hands curled into tight, painful fists. Nothing had happened. Only in her head.
‘White, please,’ she murmured, her voice meekly obedient, and received a sharp look for her trouble as he passed her a cup.
Sophie sipped her coffee, trying to disregard the sense of the absurd, the complete unreality of her situation, as she faced him from across the wide expanse of a stone hearth. She was a grown woman, with a career and a growing respect in her profession, behaving just like a good little girl, waiting to be told what he had decided to do with her property. Worse. She was being held a virtual prisoner by the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about. Not that she had needed warning. She had recognised the danger signals the moment those knowing eyes had regarded her from his threshold.
Oh? that inner voice queried, with irritating percipience. So why didn’t you run away when you had the chance? So, why hadn’t she? Heaven knew that he had warned her in no uncertain terms to stay away from him.
He was sitting opposite her, relaxed, totally at ease, his long legs stretched out before him on a worn Persian carpet, balancing a coffee-cup in one hand, watching her from beneath heavy-lidded eyes. She blinked. It had been worth the risk. It was still worth any risk.
‘Well?’ she demanded, her voice thick with tension. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense any longer, Mr Buchanan. What are you going to do with the films?’
‘That’s rather up to you, Miss Sophie Nash,’ he said softly.
She regarded him with utter disbelief, but he was apparently waiting for some response. She made a good attempt at a casual shrug. ‘Well, that’s easy,’ she said. ‘Just hand them over and I’ll be on my way.’
‘I’m sure even you can’t believe it would be quite that easy.’ He regarded her steadily for a moment. ‘You have only two choices. And I’m being generous.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘The first,’ he continued, as if she had not spoken, ‘is simply to destroy the lot. I don’t think anyone would blame me.’
‘I would blame you. In fact, Mr Buchanan, I should be very unhappy,’ she pointed out.
‘Your happiness is neither here nor there. Right now the only thing I care about is my privacy.’
‘Why?’ she demanded.
‘Why not?’ he returned with infuriating urbanity. ‘Or maybe you would enjoy having a long-lens camera pointed at you from some hidden vantage point? Perhaps when you were in the bath? Or sunbathing topless in the garden? And the results published in the newspaper?’
‘I’ve never sunbathed topless in my life,’ she protested, then blushed as one dark brow rose askance at her vehemence. ‘Besides, no one would print it,’ she continued defiantly. ‘I’m. not—’ She stopped, suddenly realising where this was leading.
‘You are not famous?’ he suggested. ‘Should that matter?’
‘Maybe not,’ she said, unable to stop herself squirming a little, letting her eyes drop from his penetrating gaze. ‘But it does.’
‘Yes, it does,’ he agreed. ‘So I made a conscious decision to stop being famous. I intend to keep it that way.’ The question, Why? sprang to her lips once more, but this time she didn’t let it beyond them. ‘And for goodness’ sake call me Chay,’ he said. ‘Mr Buchanan makes me feel about ninety.’
She recalled the sight of his sleekly muscled body as it had curved into the water. There was nothing remotely old about Chay Buchanan. He was a man at the peak of his power, the peak of his life. So what was he doing here, living alone with a small boy? Had his wife deserted him? Broken his heart? Was that the story Nigel was going to write? She found that she wanted to know, but a direct question was unlikely to produce an answer. ‘You might as well be,’ she said casually, although her heart was thumping furiously. ‘After all, you’ve retired. Given up on life…just for the sake of a little privacy.’
‘Who says I’ve retired?’ The cool voice rippled with the warning that she was treading thin ice. She chose to ignore it.
‘You haven’t written anything in years, you’ve hidden yourself away in this place. You’ve simply stepped off the end of the world and stopped living.’ She challenged him to deny it.
‘And you’re anxious to remind me of what I’m missing?’ he retaliated smoothly, his eyes glittering. For a moment she took on the anger, met him head-on while her pulse-rate accelerated alarmingly. Then she found herself staring at her battered hands, her breathing too rapid for comfort. This was a man, she discovered, that you challenged at your peril. ‘No? Then shall we stick to the matter in hand?’
She swallowed hard. ‘I believe I had two choices? What was the second?’
He didn’t answer, but stood up and fetched her camera bag from the dim recesses at the far end of the room. When he dropped it carelessly on the table in front of her she reached out, wanting to grab it close, protect it from him. But his strong fingers fastened about her wrist and stayed the anxious movement.
Then he folded the long length of his body until his eyes were on a level with hers and, poised on his toes beside her chair, he held her, dominated her with the careless arrogance of a man who knew he was invincible. ‘As I said, we destroy the films now, Sophie. All of them.’ He ignored her sharp protest and with his free hand flipped the bag open and took one out. ‘It’s quite simple.’ The pad of his thumb whitened against the cassette and Sophie physically jumped as the film burst free of its confinement and spewed into her lap. Utterly divined. She let out a low groan. All that work for nothing. Unmoved by her dismay, he picked up another cassette. ‘That was the one I took from your pocket,’ he reassured her. ‘This one might be anything.’ His hand tightened over the spool of film.
‘No!’ Her hand flew to rescue her precious film, but his fist tightened about it.
‘Sure?’ he demanded.
She swallowed. ‘You’ve destroyed the film I took of you. There’s no need to ruin the rest.’
He regarded her with something like pity. ‘I have destroyed one of the films you took of me.’
&nb
sp; ‘I only took one,’ she said, but perhaps just a little too quickly.
‘Sophie, Sophie,’ he said, remonstrating softly. ‘I can understand your eagerness to impress me with your probity. Doubtless a considerable amount of money rides on your being able to get away with your pictures. But I’m afraid that your record-keeping is too thorough.’ He tossed the film back in the bag and, releasing her wrist, he produced a small hard-bound notebook from its interior. ‘There are fifty-seven films listed in this little red book of yours. You’ve had a busy week.’ He turned the pages, scanning her entries. ‘Hotels, villas, a holiday village,’ he said, looking up. ‘I’m glad you’ve found time for a little culture too. Ancient sites, museums, Mosta Dom,’ he listed as he flicked through the pages. ‘Then there was the obligatory trip to Gozo to see the lace-makers and Calypso’s cave. And we mustn’t forget the perennial favourites. The Blue Grotto, a variety of picturesque harbours, the dghajsa man and the pleasures of the karrozzin ride. Everything, in fact, that the tourist would want to see in Malta. All annotated with precision.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘I always make notes as I take photographs. So?’
‘So?’ he echoed mockingly. ‘There are fifty-nine films in your bag, Sophie. Plus the one I took from your shirt-pocket. There appear to be not one, but two cuckoos in the nest.’
‘Oh!’ The sound rushed from her in a little sigh.
Satisfied that he had her full attention, he continued. ‘Of course, it may be that you simply forgot to record them?’ He waited for her to confirm that this was the case. But she didn’t bother. She knew he wouldn’t believe her.
‘No. I didn’t forget.’
‘No. You simply didn’t have time to record the last three films, did you, Sophie?’ He flung the notebook on the table and stood up. ‘You were too busy trying to kill yourself in your hurry to get away with your ill-gotten gains.’
She ignored this, unwilling to think about what had happened. ‘Your first offer of choice was destruction. What is the second?’
He stared down at the bag of films. ‘We could have them processed.’
‘Processed?’ she repeated with astonishment. But a little spark of hope kindled in her breast. ‘And you would keep the photographs I took of you? That’s very generous of you, Mr…Chay.’ And she managed what she hoped was a truly grateful smile.
‘Yes,’ he agreed, his own smile mocking her. ‘In the circumstances, I think it is.’
‘Of course,’ she said slowly, ‘you may not realise that they will have to go to Kodak in Paris. It will take a few days.’
two Paris?’ he asked with a slight frown. ‘Why?’
Because Kodak would despatch the processed transparencies to their London office to await her collection, as they always did, no matter where in the world they were sent from. She would still have two rolls of film. It took iron control to hide her triumph. Any sense of guilt about her long-distance photography had rapidly dissipated in the heat of his aggression. ‘Because it’s professional film. For professional reproduction,’ she said seriously. ‘I’m afraid the quality control at some backstreet chemist shop in Sliema won’t quite do.’
He smiled back. At least, his mouth smiled. His eyes were not joining in. ‘You, of course, will stay here until they return.’
Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that. But then she shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. Once they were out of his hands she would surely find some means of escape, but it wouldn’t do to concede too quickly. ‘Surely…there’s no need. I’ll give you my address,’ she offered, diplomatically choosing to overlook the fact that, since he had all her belongings, he certainly already knew her address. ‘You can just send on anything that doesn’t include you.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re very trusting.’
‘Shouldn’t I be? You wouldn’t keep them, would you?’ she asked.
‘You’ll never know, Sophie, because you are going to stay here, under close supervision, until they return.’
‘As your prisoner?’ she demanded.
His eyes darkened. ‘I could still be tempted simply to trash the lot right now.’ His hand hovered over the bag.
‘No.’ She leapt to her feet, reaching out a protective hand to grasp his wrist before he could carry out his threat. ‘You… You’d better show me to your dungeon.’
His mouth straightened in a smile. Not a very big smile. Just horribly self-satisfied. ‘Forget about the dungeon, Sophie. I have something far more entertaining in mind.’
She snatched her hand away from his wrist as if burned, eyes wide as her thoughts immediately flew to his huge bed on the floor above. Surely he didn’t mean…? ‘Can’t sing, can’t dance…’ she almost croaked.
‘No?’ he asked, as if he didn’t quite believe her. ‘But then I’m not looking for a cabaret act. How are you in the kitchen, Sophie?’
The kitchen?’ she repeated, as if the word was strange to her. Not the bedroom?
‘Yes,’ he confirmed, ‘the kitchen. Theresa has asked for a few days’ holiday. I think it would be a happy solution all round if you were to take her place for a week. A small repayment for all the bother you have caused.’
‘You mean, stay here alone with you?’ she asked, horrified at the prospect.
He seemed to find her response amusing. ‘Not quite alone. There’s Tom.’
‘Tom? I don’t think he would make a very satisfactory chaperon.’
‘You want a chaperon? A modern young woman who would risk her life to get a scoop? Come along, Miss Nash, surely you’re not afraid?’ His eyes offered her a dare. ‘I’ve stepped off the world, remember? Retired from life. What kind of a threat can I possibly pose?’
She didn’t want to consider the threat he represented, but was prepared to concede for the first time in her life that mothers knew a thing or two. ‘Just how old are you?’ she asked. ‘As a matter of interest.’
‘As a matter of interest?’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Thirty…something.’
Four? Five? No more. ‘That old?’ she asked, her heart beating ridiculously fast. She made a play of looking around, then quite deliberately raised a pair of grave grey eyes to meet the ocean depths of his. ‘So? Where do you keep your walking-frame?’
‘You, Sophie Nash,’ he said, grasping her shoulders with a fierceness which warned her that resistance was pointless, ‘are a very foolish, very impertinent young woman. And quite definitely in need of a lesson in respect when speaking to your elders. I ought to put you over my knee and spank you, right now!’
‘Do you think you could manage it?’ she persisted in defiance.
‘You choose to live dangerously, Miss Nash,’ he ground out. ‘But you’ve got enough bruises for one day.’ He jerked her towards him. ‘Consider this a down payment.’
CHAPTER FOUR
SOPHIE’S instinctive protest played straight into his hands, but by the time she realised that it was too late to clamp her mouth shut. He was quite unmoved by her attempts to free herself, carelessly releasing one shoulder before capturing her waist to pull her close against the warmth of his body, force. her to acknowledge his dominance.
She immediately stopped struggling. It didn’t need the urgent flicker of response from her own body to warn her that, clamped against his hard thighs, struggling would be foolhardy in the extreme. Instead she remained perfectly still. Determinedly unresponsive. Then an exquisite shiver ran through her body as it refused to co-operate with her brain. No one could remain unresponsive to such a man.
His mouth was a revelation. She had known it would be. Anger had not disguised the well-cut sensuality of a full lower lip that, without haste, was now demolishing the few shreds of self-possession she had managed to cling to.
He had said she should be taught a lesson and she had expected a hard, bruising kiss. Easy to resist. He knew that as well as she did. Chay Buchanan was too subtle for such caveman tactics. Instead the delicate, teasing caresses of his mouth, the heady pressure o
f his body against hers, were the kindling that lit a fire in her veins; his lips and tongue were the fan to her desire, until it was she who was kissing him, tempting him, demanding more. And it was Chay Buchanan who broke away, his eyes unreadable in the lamplight.
‘Now, Miss Nash,’ he demanded, ‘would you care to repeat that remark about a walking-frame?’
She gasped, pulled away from him. While she had been lost to the world, cloud-waltzing on desire, he had been intent upon simply making a point, humiliating her. Some lesson! One that she would be slow to forget. She would hang on to her temper, stow her pride in the attic and remember the old adage—don’t get mad, get even. Somehow, some way, she would make him pay for that.
And, with that silent promise of retribution, she lifted her chin, pinned a smile to her mouth and turned to face him, only the little black flecks that darkened her irises a betrayal of her true state of mind for those lucky enough to interpret the signals and run for cover.
‘I withdraw it unreservedly, Mr Buchanan. Despite being thirty—’ and she shrugged slightly ‘–something, you are clearly still a little way short of your dotage. Now, shall we pack up the film? Then perhaps you would be kind enough to point me in the direction of the servants’ quarters?’ He regarded her steadily, almost, she thought, with a touch of grudging appreciation for her acting ability. What had he expected? Hysterics? It was as well he couldn’t see behind her cool facade to the seething mass of emotions that were churning around her brain and sending confused signals sparking through her body. Hysterics were nothing to what she felt like throwing.
‘I’ll see to the films in the morning,’ he assured her. ‘I think perhaps you’ve had enough for your first time out of bed.’
More than enough. More than enough of Chay Buchanan to last a lifetime. ‘I’ve been in bed all day,’ she reminded him. ‘I’m not tired.’ There was something important that she had to do. Casually, she took a roll of tiny sticky labels from her bag and began to fasten one to each of the films with fingers that trembled just a little.