by Liz Fielding
Twany? Who was Twany? But Sophie met his glance. If she was to be cast in the role of nanny, the least she could do was make some pretence of doing her job. She pursed her lips, in a manner perfected by her grandmother. ‘I do hope,’ she said primly, ‘that you dried Tom thoroughly before he went.’
‘Have you forgotten so soon?’ he asked, his voice a silken ambush. ‘How very thorough I can be?’ The colour flooded to her cheeks at this reference to the way he had showered her. And dried her. Her stupid mouth should be fitted with a zip-fastener.
‘I’ll fetch that cup.’ Anything to get away from his sardonic eyes and the flicker of amusement that crossed the lips of Poppy Curzon. Amusement that clearly suggested she was wasting her time if she thought Chay Buchanan would ever take more than a passing interest in the likes of her.
I don’t want him to take an interest in me, she swore silently, as she clung to the edge of the kitchen table and tried to ignore the soft ripple of laughter that floated through the kitchen door, tried to fight down an almost irresistible urge to throw something. I just want to get away from here. Away from Chay Buchanan.
She was still simmering as she passed around Theresa’s excellent cake. ‘Are you here on holiday, Miss Curzon?’ she asked, with excessive politeness.
‘Holiday?’ The idea clearly took the woman by surprise. ‘No, I’m here on business.’ She shrugged. ‘I am Chay’s literary agent.’
‘Was, darling,’ he corrected her. ‘Since I no longer write, I don’t need an agent.’
‘Of course you do. It may be a while since your last novel, but I’m still handling overseas sales, reprints, translations. There’s a repeat of the mini-series of your first book scheduled for this autumn.’ Chay did not look paticularly pleased with this news. “There’s an enormous amount of interest still, darling. You could name your own price.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Sophie said, and they both turned to her.
‘What don’t you understand?’ Poppy snapped, clearly wishing that the ‘nanny’ would remember her place.
Sophie kept her eyes fixed upon the tall, glowering figure of her nemesis. ‘I don’t understand why Chay said he doesn’t write any more.’ Poppy’s eyes narrowed, but Sophie was transfixed by the momentary flash of disbelief that crossed Chay’s face. ‘He writes every day of his life. He told me so himself.’ Take that, Mr Buchanan, her eyes clearly told him. You might be able to keep me your prisoner and amuse your sophisticated women-friends at my expense, but you can’t gag me. Then, as his eyes turned to steel, she suddenly wasn’t so sure.
But before the explosion happened, before he could say or do anything, Poppy exclaimed, ‘A new book? Tell me? What are you working on, Chay?’
From across the table his eyes finally relinquished their hold on Sophie, but she was left in no doubt that retaliation had only been delayed. And when he turned slowly to Poppy, he was wearing a small, disparaging smile. It was a daunting display of self-control. ‘I’m afraid that Sophie is mistaken.’
Poppy glanced at Sophie. ‘But she said—’
‘That I write every day?’ He shrugged. ‘I keep a diary. Doesn’t everyone?’
For a moment she was speechless. ‘But Chay, that would be—’
‘It’s not for publication,’ he said sharply. Then, as he saw from Poppy’s intent expression that he had only aroused her interest further, he leaned back in his chair. ‘I hardly think two hundred and fifty pages of “Got up. Lounged around—”’ he looked pointedly at Sophie as he repeated the word she had used in her withering description of his lifestyle ‘“–went to bed” is likely to hit the bestseller list, Poppy.’
Poppy stared at him, then at Sophie, picking up the dangerous undercurrent that tugged between them. ‘That would depend on who you went to bed with, darling,’ she murmured, and a secret little smile curved her lips as she met Sophie’s eyes.
‘Kiss and tell was never my style, Poppy,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m far too busy these days to—’
‘I know. I’ve seen Castile Developments everywhere, sweetheart, and I’m very impressed, but that’s not you…’
‘It is now.’
Sophie’s brows flew up in surprise. ‘Castile Developments?’ Her fingers touched the card in her pocket. ‘Is that you?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ Poppy asked, apparently amused.
But Sophie, staring at Chay, didn’t bother to answer. It was hardly surprising he had taken umbrage at her assertion that he had ‘retired’. The only surprise was that he had time to put pen to paper at all. But there was a book. But since he clearly had no intention of publishing it, there was something else driving him to keep her prisoner.
But Poppy hadn’t given up. ‘You could leave the management of the development company to someone else, Chay. Anybody could do that. But you have a gift.’ His gesture was dismissive. ‘Well, think of Tom,’ she pressed him. ‘You have his future to consider. For a three-book contract we would be talking telephone numbers.’
‘Perhaps. But this way I don’t have to stand up and bare my soul every time I complete a deal. Writing was something I did a long time ago. I don’t do it any more because the books are not enough. They want more and more–chat-shows, interviews, lecture-tours—and when they have all that, and they can’t think of anything pleasant to say, it gets more personal…’ His glance at Sophie was quelling. ‘They never give up.’
‘Chay, I promise—’
He stopped her with a look. ‘Don’t promise what you can’t deliver, Poppy. Somewhere in that contract, in words so obscure, so small that it’ll need a magnifying glass to find them there will be a water-tight clause about the author co-operating with publicity. There always is,’ he said bitterly, ‘as I know to my cost.’
‘The absolute minimum, I promise.’
Sophie almost winced as he turned hard, provoking eyes upon her. ‘You see, Sophie, that I was able to sharpen my natural scepticism on an expert.’ But she rose to the challenge.
‘You never seemed to object to co-operating with publicity in the past,’ she retaliated. ‘You always appeared to be extremely happy in the photographs that were printed in the newspapers.’
‘And the camera never lies?’ His eyes were expressionless. He replaced his cup on the table. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a pointless journey, Poppy.’
‘Not pointless,’ Poppy said, and once more her hand strayed to his arm. ‘Come and have dinner with me tonight, Chay.’ Her voice was husky. ‘It’ll be like old times.’
‘Excuse me.’ Sophie stood up abruptly, and swept the tray back to the kitchen.
When Chay had seen Poppy to her taxi he leaned against the kitchen table, watching while Sophie concentrated very hard on washing the dishes. She made it last a long time, knowing full well that he was waiting for her to turn and face the music. Finally, however, it was done, and the moment could be put off no longer. She stripped off the over-large rubber gloves she had found in the cupboard beneath the sink and took a deep breath to calm the butterflies dancing in her stomach.
‘So, you won’t be in for dinner tonight?’ she asked brightly as she turned to face him.
‘No, unfortunately, because you must be quite a cook. If that demonstration of stirring is anything to go by.’
‘If you think that’s all there is to cooking, you have clearly never tried it yourself.’
‘Never,’ he confirmed, folding his arms. There was something about the way he said it that made her doubt the truth of that statement.
‘Who is Twany?’ she asked, abruptly changing the subject.
‘He’s Theresa’s brother. He looks after the horses and does the gardening.’
‘Then I’m surprised you haven’t given him the week off as well. However did you resist the temptation to set me weeding and mucking out the stables?’
He took a step towards her, and she almost flinched as she saw the warning glint in his eyes, edging back until the sink brought her to a halt. ‘It was tough, Sophie
Nash, I promise.’ He caught hold of her hands, held up as if to ward him off, and turned them over to look at her palms. ‘But unfortunately these are in no state to wield a shovel.’
She ignored with difficulty the ripple of excitement at his touch as he cradled her hands. The memory of Poppy Curzon’s throaty voice helped. ‘What a great disappointment that must be for you!’
He stared at her fingers, still bearing the marks of her desperate scramble up the cliff. When he looked up all trace of gentleness had disappeared. ‘Perhaps they’ll be sufficiently healed for you to put in a day or two before you leave.’
‘Why don’t you go the whole way and put me to work on one of your construction sites?’
‘Don’t tempt me!’
‘Forget it, Chay,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving today. Right now, in fact!’
His grip tightened painfully on her fingers. ‘No, Sophie. You’ll stay for as long as I choose to keep you here.’
‘You can’t!’ He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. ‘How long?’ she asked, a little shakily.
‘A week. Maybe a little more. So take a few days’ holiday and forget why you came here. I do mean that.’
‘This is your idea of a holiday?’ she demanded.
‘Tom’s not hard work.’
‘I’ve no objection to Tom’s company,’ she retorted pointedly.
‘Then looking after him for a few days will be precious little penance for all the trouble you’ve put me to.’ Sophie took a breath, but he hadn’t finished. ‘I sent away your films this morning.’
‘Oh!’ The exclamation escaped in a little rush of air. Despite her attempt to deceive him he had still kept to his part of the bargain. ‘Where?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Which laboratory did you send them to?’
‘You don’t really expect me to tell you that?’ he demanded, and she gave a little gasp. Always, she forgot. The minute he touched her she forgot everything. She snatched her hands away and he smiled slightly. ‘You needn’t worry. I took advice. They’ll be of professional quality,’ he promised.
‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly.
His eyebrows rose dramatically. ‘Can this be gratitude?’ he enquired.
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘How long will they be?’
‘Why? Do you have something more important to do? Some other unsuspecting soul to point your long lens at?’
‘No, I don’t!’ Once had been enough. More than enough.
‘Then, what’s your hurry?’ He shrugged. ‘Theresa wanted to go and see her latest grandchild. She should be back in about a week.’
‘But you’re not keeping me here to give Theresa a holiday, are you, Chay?’ she demanded. ‘You just want her out of the way, because if she knew you were keeping me here against my will she wouldn’t stand for it. Would she? So what’s the real reason?’
CHAPTER SIX
CHAY glared at her. ‘That is none of your damn business, Sophie Nash. All you have to do is behave yourself for a few days, then you can go.’
‘How many days?’ she demanded.
‘As many as it takes!’ For a moment the air crackled as the two of them squared up to each other. Then he swept a hand through the lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. ‘Believe me when I tell you that I don’t want you hanging around any longer than necessary. I spent today trying to move…certain matters forward.’
What ‘certain matters’? She made a determined effort to dampen her natural curiosity. She didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to know anything. But she regarded him with disapproval. ‘You took a heck of a chance leaving Tom alone with me. Suppose I had just walked out and left him?’ A worse thought struck her. ‘Suppose something had happened to him? There’s no telephone, no car—’
‘I gave up leaving anything to chance years ago,’ he said abruptly. ‘Twany was near by, keeping an eye on things.’
‘And to stop me leaving?’ she demanded.
‘Leaving? And where would you have gone, pray? On foot, without any money or a passport? I don’t think so. But the true reason for your stay remains our secret.’
‘Your secret,’ she amended. ‘One of them.’
‘The only one you’ll be privy to.’
‘How many do you have?’ She squared up to him again. ‘For instance, is it common knowledge that you own Castile Develoments?’
His hand shot out and grasped her arm. ‘It’s what I do here.’ Not all he did, she thought. But she had already said far too much. She didn’t want him to know she had been prying through his desk. He released her. ‘I’m a businessman. A very good one. There’s no scandal in that.’
‘None,’ she agreed quickly.
‘So. We’ll keep the reason for your stay between the two of us. Clearly you prefer it that way, or you would have spilled the beans to Poppy.’
‘You saw to it that I didn’t have much opportunity for that. Was that why you insisted I stay for the tea ceremony? To keep me from writing a cry for help and slipping it into her car?’
‘How bright you are, Sophie,’ he said quietly. ‘What a pity to waste all that beauty and intelligence on such a sordid occupation.’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You’re right, of course. And if you could have alerted Poppy you would have had an ally.’
‘Would I?’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘It didn’t feel much like it.’
‘Didn’t it?’ He laughed softly. ‘Then you were wrong. If Poppy had known your true purpose in being here she would have fallen upon you like a long-lost sister.’
‘A long lost—?’ She stopped. Took a deep breath. It was just a figure of speech. He knew nothing about the real reason why it had been so important to get a photograph of him.
But he was frowning. ‘What is it? What did I say?’
‘Nothing. It was nothing.’ Change the subject. Something. Anything. ‘I…I think it’s a pity you don’t publish what you write,’ she said quickly. To her relief she saw that Chay was amused.
‘That came perilously close to a compliment.’
‘You don’t need me to tell you how good you are. Were,’ she corrected herself carefully. ‘I…I have some sympathy with Poppy. It must be infuriating to have represented one of the hottest literary properties in the world, only to have him…drop out.’
‘She has other authors,’ he replied, the smile switched off as quickly as it had appeared.
That was better. It was easier when he was angry. ‘Perhaps, but you must have seemed like the equivalent of the golden goose. And, let’s face it, you’ve gone offlay.’
He stared at her. ‘You know nothing about it.’
‘No? Then why don’t you tell me? Is the great Chay Buchanan suffering from a terminal case of writer’s block?’ she demanded. She already knew the answer. He couldn’t stop writing, but he would rather not publish than face the publicity. There must be some good reason… What exactly did Nigel know? Or suspect? ‘I wasn’t fooled by that nonsense about a diary,’ she continued, a little recklessly. ‘And I don’t suppose Poppy will be if she takes time to think about it. So what is it? What are you hiding from?’ The beautiful face of the girl in the photograph flashed on to her mind’s eye. ‘What happened to your wife, Chay?’
His face went white beneath the tan. Whether with anger or shock she couldn’t tell, but instinctively she held her breath, waiting for the explosion. It never came.
‘Maria…is dead.’
The painful words fell into a shocked silence so sudden, so complete, that she heard a petal fall from the bunch of yellow daisies she and Tom had picked and put in a jug on the kitchen table.
Sophie drew in a long shuddering breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘That was unforgivable of me.’
‘You keep doing unforgivable things, Sophie,’ he rasped, the hard planes of his cheeks, the fierce hook of his broken nose so close that she could hardly breathe. She lowered her lashes, to block out the pitiless expression.
‘You…you just seem to bring out the worst
in me,’ she whispered.
‘Do I?’ He hooked her chin with his hand, lifted her face to his unsparing scrutiny. It seemed to last forever. ‘I wonder what the best is like?’
Defensive, prickly, too aware that his fingers at her throat were making her tremble, she retaliated. ‘You’re not about to find out.’ Still he probed, searched her face, and she panicked. ‘Of course, if you let me keep your photographs it would help,’ she said, deliberately provoking.
‘Would it? In that case I’ll have to live with the worst.’ And he dropped his hand, turning away, missing her surge of relief as she leaned weakly back against the sink. When he spoke again his tone was once more harsh. ‘You’d better come down to the stables with me to fetch Tom; he wants to show you his pony.’
It took a moment to pull her wits together and he glanced impatiently from the doorway. ‘I’m coming,’ she said quickly.
He led the way out of the kitchen and across the garden and then held open the gate to a narrow path that ran between old drystone walls down the hill towards a group of buildings.
Walking alongside him on the narrow path, his arm brushing against her with every step, was a nightmare. He was so…physical. She tried to drop back, but he put his hand on her shoulder, easing her in front of him to give her more room, and he left it there. The nervous tingles from the unintentional contact were suddenly in danger of becoming a solid warm glow.
Sophie fought it. With each step she reminded herself of his insults, every cutting remark, the casual touch of his hands, of his lips used to emphasise his complete mastery over her. She was his prisoner, she reminded herself. And somewhere out there was Nigel, waiting for her to ‘kiss and tell’. Already she had enough for Nigel to have a field-day if he continued to demand her co-operation in return for information about her sister… She glanced at the man beside her, and felt a deep pit of cold misery in her stomach.
Tom’s delighted face, his small hands tugging her away to admire his golden-coated pony, came as a blessed relief. ‘She’s lovely, Tom. What’s her name?’