by Liz Fielding
If he insisted on destroying her films she could do nothing to stop him. She would find a cheap hotel, work at top speed; she knew the shots she wanted now, and that would save a considerable amount of time. There would be precious little left from her fee, but at least she would retain her reputation as a reliable photographer. And her self-control.
There were worse things in life than losing a week’s work. Far worse. She pulled herself up to the full extent of her five feet six inches. ‘Do what you want with my films, Mr Buchanan,’ she said. ‘I want to leave here right now. I…I have a lot of work to catch up on.’
A small muscle was working angrily at the corner of his mouth. ‘You’re not going anywhere, Miss Nash. I thought I had made that quite plain.’
She made a move towards him. ‘Don’t you understand? You can do what you like with the wretched films. I just want to leave. Now!’ she added, with some force.
‘I warned you what would happen if I caught you trespassing,’ he reminded her, his face hard as the cliff-face.
And the fact that he was in deadly earnest finally penetrated. ‘But…why?’
‘The reason is none of your business. But we have gone far beyond the minor problem of a few photographs. Until certain…negotiations have been finalised, I’m afraid I can’t risk your nasty little headlines.’
‘But I wouldn’t—’
‘You were very convincing, Sophie.’
‘But…1 didn’t meant it. Truly.’ She had been angry, that was all. ‘I have to get home. It’s—’
‘What?’ His lips twisted into a savage little smile. ‘A matter of life and death?’ His voice had an unpleasant little sneer to it that made her hackles rise, but she fought back the desire to slap him. It was too important that she convince him. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Is that what you were going to say?’
She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘Perhaps I was,’ she admitted, her eyes pleading with him. ‘But it is… very important.’
‘You should have thought of that before you started your sordid little job.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Please let me go, Chay.’ She whispered the plea, her eyes huge.
‘Don’t do that!’ He was staring at her blankly, and for a moment she thought she was getting through to him. Then he lifted his hand to her heated cheek, to graze it with the hard edge of his thumb. ‘Or I’ll have to kiss you again.’ His heavy-lidded eyes regarded her dispassionately. ‘Until you beg me to let you stay.’
She stumbled back, but his hand was there, at her waist, to steady, hold her. ‘You’ve got a great notion of your physical attraction,’ she declared roundly, refusing to acknowledge the heat licking through her veins at the merest touch of his hand. Did that husky voice really belong to her?
‘Have I?’ Her eyes followed his apparent fascination with the front of her shirt, and she blushed deeply as she realised that the tips of her betraying breasts were thrusting hard against the fine cloth. His fingers traced a circle around the dark areola faintly visible against the whiteness, his thumb brushing the sensitive tip, and, apparently satisfied with her shuddering response, he raised his eyes to meet hers. ‘Are you confident enough of your willpower to put it to the test?’
No! Her head screamed the word. Her mouth seemed to find it a great deal more difficult. Just as her body refused her bidding to pull away from the hand tucked against the small of her back.
What on earth was happening to her? Wild sensations were lashing at her body. Undreamed of desires that made her breasts feel tight and swollen, that heated her skin and pulsed in an almost unbearable ache deep in her loins. None of the sensations was precisely new. She was twenty-three, too old never to have felt the throb of arousal, even if she had always rejected it, afraid that because she and Jennie were twins—mirror-images of one another—it was inevitable that she must make the same mistakes.
It had been like waiting for the other shoe to drop, her mother had once told her, in a moment of weakness, on one of the few occasions she had managed to talk about it.
But she instinctively knew that what she was feeling now was different, more intense, as if the world had been nothing but a monochrome blur and had suddenly been transformed into brilliant, rainbow-bright focus.
‘I…er…’ She cleared her throat. ‘I think I… perhaps…I…’ There was no point in lying. He already knew.
‘I think you’d better go to bed right now.’
She almost slumped against him, weak with relief that he hadn’t actually put her to the test. Then, panicking that he would misread the signals her body was flashing out like a firebug in heat, she tried to yank free of his drugging touch. ‘No! That is…I didn’t mean…’
‘Didn’t you, Sophie?’ He shrugged slightly. ‘Shame your body wasn’t co-operating.’ But before she could protest he had stepped back. ‘I’ll show you to your room.’ He paused briefly as they passed the table, and gathered up her camera bag. ‘And, in case you’re wondering, this will be locked away with the rest of your belongings, where you can’t get at it. So don’t get any bright ideas about running off in the middle of the night.’
A yawn caught her unawares, as if to demonstrate that she wasn’t capable of running anywhere. She was suddenly quite exhausted, and it took all her strength simply not to lean against him. ‘I couldn’t run on the spot,’ she murmured.
‘You’ll forgive my natural scepticism. It’s stood me in good stead so far.’
His words were like a douche of cold water, driving all thought of sleep from her head. ‘You are unbearable!’ she exclaimed.
‘You’ll find that “unbearable” is one of my more endearing characteristics.’ His fierce glance choked off the rejoinder that sprang to her lips. ‘Upstairs, Sophie. Now.’
The sun woke her, dragging her reluctantly from sleep. But the brightness was not to be resisted, and Sophie opened gritty lids to acknowledge the day. The light was streaming in clear and bright through the open window and she stretched, tentatively trying out her aching limbs. She was stiff, it was true, but only her shoulder still gave her any real pain, and that was something she could live with. It was certainly no more unbearable than Chay Buchanan.
She sat up, eased her feet to the cool polished boards and went across to the window. Her room was on the opposite side of the tower from Chay’s bedroom and the terrace, overlooking a flat stretch of open ground before the land began to rise beyond the road in the rocky terraces of small farms.
The week before she had cursed the squall of spring rain that had delayed her work. But now tiny irises, no bigger than her thumb, bee orchids and other small flowers were spreading a thick carpet of bloom across the baked earth, and a hedge of mimosa was decked out in fluffy yellow blooms.
Reluctantly she turned from the window. No time for that. The sooner she was ready, the sooner she could leave, and get on with the business of explaining to puzzled hoteliers why she had to repeat her work.
She went into the bathroom that adjoined her bedroom and stood for a few moments until the needle-sharp spray of the shower had her gasping. Then she washed her hair, threatening herself for the hundredth time that she would have the tiresome mop cut as she combed it out and dried it with the battery-operated drier that went everywhere with her. Her hair kinked at the slightest hint of humidity, despite every atttempt to tame it. It was only the fear that if she had it cut it would make her look like a poodle that had so far kept the scissors at bay. At least long she could clamp it down with hairpins, if all else failed.
Theresa had unpacked her clothes and laid out her cosmetics on the dressing-table, as if Sophie were a lady. But she had no time to waste on make-up. She quickly tugged on a fresh chambray shirt and long tailored navy shorts that echoed the pair she had ‘borrowed’ from Chay the night before.
She pushed her feet into a pair of sandals and buckled on the watch that had appeared beside her bed since she fell into an almost immediate and dreamless sleep the night before. Had he put it there w
hile she slept? She shrugged away the thought. It hardly mattered. But, as she pulled the strap tight, her fingers shook a little at the thought of him standing over her defenceless sleeping body.
Stop it, she warned herself. He might have kissed her, but it wasn’t because he desired her. He’d made that more than plain. She glanced in the mirror and after a moment fastened one more button of her shirt, leaving only the top button open. She didn’t want a repetition of his accusation that she was batting eyelashes or anything else at him. It was too important that she convince him to let her go. He had to let her go. She opened the wardrobe door, took an armful of clothes and flung them on to the bed ready to pack. But there was no suitcase.
She took a deep breath, opened the bedroom door and marched downstairs, determined to thrash it out with him. But Chay wasn’t there, only Theresa, greeting her as an old friend, drawing her excitedly into the kitchen and sitting her down at the table. It was difficult to follow what the woman was saying—she switched from Maltese to English and back again without apparently noticing. But, as she produced coffee, melting scrambled eggs and bacon, it gradually became clear that she was expressing her delight that Miss Sophie was going to look after Tom while she was away.
Sophie opened her mouth to protest that this was just not possible. But Theresa, beaming, removed her apron and donned an impressive black hat. ‘Grazzi, Miss Sophie, grazzi, hafna,’ she repeated, taking her hand in both of hers and shaking it vigorously, departing once more into her own language.
‘Theresa,’ she interrupted urgently.
‘Iva?’
‘Where is Mr Buchanan?’
‘He’s out. At his marina.’ Marina? At a time like this, he had decided to go boating? Sophie was stunned by the sheer nerve of the man, but it didn’t matter where he was. She had a chance to escape. But Theresa hadn’t finished. ‘Tom…he is in the garden.’
She pulled Sophie to the door. Tom looked up from the small enclosed garden below the terrace, that was sheltered from the cool April breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean. He was playing with a large yellow toy crane, shifting a pile of sand to an equally handsome dumper-truck. The child was an unlikely gaoler, Sophie thought. But just as effective as chains.
‘Hello, Tom.’
‘Hello,’ he said, suddenly shy.
‘I go now,’ Theresa declared, and turned to leave.
‘No, wait!’ The woman paused, eyebrows slightly raised at the touch of panic in her voice. ‘When will Mr Buchanan be back?’ Sophie continued, more carefully.
Theresa shrugged. ‘Later.’
Later. That was just great. But she might usefully take advantage of his absence to regain control of her possessions so that she could make a run for it when he did get back. ‘Do you know what he has done with my camera? My car keys?’
‘No worry.’ The woman patted Sophie’s hand. ‘Safe.’ She indicated the rapidly cooling breakfast. ‘Eat!’
‘And my suitcase?’ she persisted. At least she could pack in readiness for his return.
‘Upstairs.’ Theresa pointed at the ceiling.
Sophie sank into the chair. It wasn’t much help, but it was a start. ‘Thank you, Theresa,’ she said, temporarily resigned to her fate. At least until the return of Mr Chay Buchanan. ‘Have a good holiday.’
CHAPTER FIVE
SOPHIE stared at her breakfast, furious and yet oddly touched that Chay had trusted her sufficiently to leave Tom in her care. She glanced at the dark-haired boy visible through the open door. How could he have been so sure she wouldn’t just walk out and leave him? After all, if she was everything he believed…
Idiot! Who did she think she was kidding? Of course she was going to stay. He had her camera locked away as assurance for her good behaviour. And her passport. Even her suitcase. Sophie Nash wasn’t going anywhere until Chay Buchanan was good and ready.
She glared at her breakfast. She would go on hunger strike. He would have to let her go then. She stood up and seized the plate, determined to smash it and its contents against the nearest wall. One thing stopped her. The absolute certainty that he would derive great pleasure from making her clear up the mess. She sank back into her chair. Besides, she was hungry.
She washed her dish and placed it on the rack and glanced around. If she was going to cook the child lunch, she’d better know what was available.
She swung open the huge fridge door, checking over the contents. Then she stopped. What on earth was she doing? She would be getting out the vacuum cleaner next, to run over the living-room carpet. Coming to heel like a well-trained dog. She slammed the fridge door shut and turned to find herself being regarded solemnly by a pair of almost black eyes. Not that mysterious ocean-green like his father’s.
‘Is it time for lunch, Miss Nash?’ Tom asked tentatively.
‘Lunch?’ She glanced at her watch. Half-past ten. Ten! Could she really have slept that late? She looked at her watch again. Apparently she could. Tom was watching her anxiously and she smiled reassuringly, saving her anger for his father, and crouched down so that she was on his level. ‘Not yet, Tom. Perhaps elevenses. What would you like?’ she asked.
‘Honey?’ he suggested hopefully.
‘Bread and honey?’ He nodded. ‘Milk?’
‘Yes, please,’ he said, and wriggled on to a kitchen chair. ‘Miss Nash?’
‘Why don’t you call me Sophie?’ she suggested, reaching for a crusty loaf of homemade bread. Homemade? If Mr Chay Buchanan expected her to pound dough on his behalf he had another think coming. She had never made bread in her life.
Tom looked doubtful. ‘Papa said I was to call you Miss Nash.’
‘Did he? What else did he say?’
‘I must be polite and…and not make you cross, or you won’t stay and look after me while Theresa’s away.’
Well, clever old Papa. What a pity he didn’t take his own advice. ‘I’d like you to call me Sophie, Tom. Then we can be friends.’
He immediately brightened. ‘OK. Sophie. Will you swim with me this afternoon?’
She looked at the boy’s hopeful face, but wouldn’t make a promise she might not be able to keep. ‘I might not be here,’ she said.
‘Papa said you were staying until Theresa comes back.’
‘Did he?’ Well, Papa could think again. ‘You’re a very good swimmer,’ she said.
‘How do you know that?’
She handed the boy a thick slice of bread spread with honey. ‘I saw you yesterday—’ And then she stopped. She didn’t want to think about the cliff. ‘What would you like for lunch, Tom?’ she asked quickly, to divert his thoughts. To divert her own thoughts.
‘Honey?’ he sugested.
‘I don’t think so.’ They settled on pizza, then Tom took her outside to show her the garden.
Dr Manduca found them there, sitting in the fragrant shade of a carob tree thick with pink blossom. ‘You look better today, Miss Nash. No, please don’t get up.’
‘I feel fine,’ she replied.
‘Good. I saw Chay in Valletta this morning. He said you were brighter. He’s left you babysitting, I understand?’
‘I’m not a baby,’ Tom said. ‘I’m nearly six.’
The doctor laughed. ‘Very nearly six,’ he agreed. ‘On Sunday, in fact.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I was there when you were born. Are you having a party?’ The boy shrugged and the doctor’s eyes softened. ‘I’ll have to remind your Papa. My children will be very disappointed if you don’t.’
Tom turned to Sophie. ‘Would you come to my party, Sophie?’
‘I…don’t know if I’ll be here, Tom.’
‘But Theresa’s going to be away for a whole week,’ he replied with a small frown.
‘Run along and play with your truck, Tom,’ the doctor said, unexpectedly coming to her rescue. ‘I just want to look at Miss Nash.’
‘I’m fine, really,’ Sophie protested.
‘Shall I be the judge of t
hat?’ But when he had checked her over he agreed. ‘Just as well, since you’re looking after Tom.’ He smiled as he closed his bag. ‘It’s good of you to offer to cover for Theresa. She rarely gets a break. Not that she complains. Bring him over to play with my brood one day,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll get Gian to arrange something.’ He stood up. ‘Have a good holiday. And no more climbing, eh?’
She offered what sounded horribly like a hollow echo to his cheerful laughter. ‘No,’ she promised. ‘I plan to steer well clear of the cliff from now on.’ She walked with him to the door, shook his hand and watched as his car pulled away. She must be mad, she thought. If she had just told the doctor the whole story, he would almost certainly have talked some sense into Chay. She closed the door and leaned against it. All supposing Dr Manduca would believe her. The men were friends and men stuck together. No. She had got herself into this stupid situation and she would have to get herself out of it.
After lunch Tom went upstairs for a nap. He seemed a little old for this, but Sophie had noticed that children stayed up much later here than at home. They all seemed to sleep in the afternoon. And it suited her very well. With Chay out and Tom asleep, it was as good a chance as she was likely to get to search for her things.
She began upstairs. Theresa had said the suitcase was up there and that was a start. But a quick tour of Chay’s room proved fruitless. The only hiding place large enough was the wardrobe, but that revealed nothing beyond a well-tended selection of clothes. She had begun to close the door when she noticed a small card on the floor. A business card. It must have dropped out of a pocket. She bent and picked it up. The logo, a dark green tower, belonged to Castile Developments. She had seen it all over the islands on construction sites and at the new marina, even at a hotel she had photographed that had had the developer’s board still in place. It was one of the biggest companies on the island. But what on earth…? A stirring from Tom’s room sent a warning prickle across her scalp.