by Liz Fielding
She didn’t want to hear what he had planned. ‘Did you get your jacket back?’ she interrupted him sharply. The waiter placed a plate in front of her and began to serve.
His eyes flickered in surprise at her abrupt intervention. ‘Yes. I got it back. Thank you for having it cleaned. Rather an odd gesture, I thought, in the circumstances.’
She retreated to politeness. ‘It was the least I could do. It wasn’t meant to be personal.’ But it had been—once he had begun to devour her with those unsmiling slate eyes. Once she had realised that she wanted to be devoured.
‘It felt very personal. And I can assure you that my response was entirely personal. I’d do it again.’ A sudden sparkle lit the back of his eyes. ‘With the utmost pleasure.’
She swallowed. ‘What will you do now? Send me home?’
He looked at her with curiosity. ‘It’s important to you, isn’t it? Staying here?’ She nodded dumbly. He sat back and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘I was sorry I let you go so easily the last time we met. In fact I tried to find you, but no one seemed to know who you were.’
‘You should have left me to be arrested,’ she said with some feeling. ‘Then my name would have been in the papers.’
‘Perhaps. But it was more fun my way, wouldn’t you say? I’ll make you a proposition, Georgette. We have unfinished business, you and I. If I let you stay, will you sit for me?’
George felt the heat colouring her face. He wanted her to pose for him. She swallowed. ‘Here?’ she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper.
He shook his head. ‘No. In my studio.’ His smile was not reassuring. ‘It’s more private.’
There was a tight band fastening about her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. ‘I could change my mind once we leave Kenya.’
‘I don’t believe you would go back on a promise given, Georgette.’ There was a soft conviction in his voice.
‘No.’
‘Think about it.’ He picked up his knife and fork and attacked his food with sudden enthusiasm. When he looked up again, there was no trace of threat in his face, only a friendly smile. ‘You can tell me when we pick up the others. If you decide to go home I’ll leave you at the Norfolk.’
George played with her food, trying to decide if it would matter. The mere taking off of her clothes was nothing. If it had been anybody else it would be nothing. But the thought of revealing herself for Lukas was turning her slowly to jelly.
He made no comment on her untouched food, instead he glanced at his watch. ‘We’d better pick the others up.’ He signed the bill and began to rise.
‘Lukas!’ The urgency in her voice stopped him. ‘Who would see the photograph? Would you use it for … a calendar?’
His face betrayed no emotion. ‘Is that all you see when you look at me, Georgette?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re so damned narrow-minded. Don’t you have a use for the wretched things? Haven’t you ever had one with reproductions of famous paintings, for instance? Botticelli’s Birth of Venus? The Naked Maja?’ She looked at her hands, anywhere, but at him. ‘For your information the MotorPart calendar is the only one I do. It’s a special favour for your father, and I make sure he pays for the privilege. The money buys me time for other things.’ He saw the mute appeal in her eyes and relented. ‘No one but me will see the portrait I take of you.’ He drew her to her feet. ‘No one else will be at the studio. It will be just for me. And I too keep my word.’
He tucked her arm into his and led her back to the car. As he opened the passenger door for her the scent of the flowers rose up to fill the night air. It was overwhelming, suffocating almost. Lukas picked up the posy and handed it to her. ‘They were a mistake, I think. Madonna lilies would suit you better. I must remember that.’
She took the flowers and he helped her into the car.
‘You’re trembling, George,’ he drawled softly.
‘I’m feeling a bit chilly,’ she countered.
‘I could warm you up,’ he offered with a gentleness she chose to ignore.
‘No doubt.’
He shrugged and did not speak again until they pulled up in front of the Norfolk.
George barely noticed the others crowding into the rear of the car. An unspoken question lay between them and Lukas was waiting for an answer. His arm was draped casually across the back of the seat, but there was a tension about his eyes as he waited for her decision.
‘George?’
She tore her eyes away from the intensity of his gaze and glanced towards the hotel, knowing that she should walk away from him while she still could.
‘Hadn’t we better be going, Lukas?’
Chapter Seven
There was the faintest glint of satisfaction about his eyes as Lukas regarded her from his seat beside the pilot. George regretted the impulse that had driven her to scramble into the back of the plane to be as far from him as possible. She had no wish to be separated from him by even a few feet—it left her too much time to consider the consequences of what she had promised.
It seemed an odd chain of events that had led her from a demonstration against a beauty competition to the point at which she had agreed to pose for Lukas. She stared at the back of his head where unruly dark hair curled over the back of his collar, and wondered what it would be like, what he would ask her to do. The small sound that escaped her throat was nothing to do with the pilot’s warning that they were about to land.
They hit the deck with a bump and the plane raced towards a distant light. When they finally taxied to a halt George saw with a shock that it was nothing but a pair of car headlights. The pilot helped them unload their equipment. George and Lukas both reached for the tripod at the same time and their hands touched. George withdrew as if she’d been stung.
He looked up, surprised by her reaction. ‘I don’t bite,’ he murmured softly. She didn’t, couldn’t answer as he shouldered it and stowed it alongside the camera and film boxes.
He opened the passenger door for her and she clambered up quickly, squeezing against the jeep to avoid the dangerous pleasure of touching him.
For a moment he swayed towards her, oblivious to their interested audience. ‘Regretting your decision already, George?’ he asked, quiet anger in every syllable. ‘Well, it’s too late to change your mind now.’ He shut the door firmly.
George felt her fingernails bite into the palm of her hands. Her problem was not regret, but that she couldn’t keep the idea of it out of her head.
The drive through the bush was a dark nightmare. Lukas drove with a wild recklessness, forcing her to hang on as they hurtled along the rough track. The eruption of a nightjar, into the glare of the headlights, brought a small cry from George.
‘For God’s sake, it was only a bird!’
‘I’m sorry,’ George apologised in a small voice, but he completed the journey at a steadier rate, without a further break in the tense silence. Their arrival was greeted with an almost uniform sigh of relief and for a moment everyone sat completely still. Then Walter’s face appeared at George’s window.
‘Did the transparencies arrive?’
Work brought them all back to life and minutes later they were bent in concentration over the portable light box. ‘They’re pretty good,’ Lukas finally remarked. ‘That worked really well.’ George looked at the slides, but they had all been taken before she arrived and her opinion was apparently unsought. She turned to go. Without turning from his contemplation of the photographs Lukas put out a hand and captured her wrist, pulling her back. He let go just long enough to put his arm around her waist and draw her close against him. He looked down, his eyes cold granite chips only inches from her own.
‘What do you think of this one, George?’ he drawled. The question, the tone, was amiable. Only she could see his eyes and understood the implicit challenge. This, he was saying, this is what you will do for me. She felt the colour drain from her face.
‘I think it’s …’ she struggled for a suitable adjective ‘… ver
y nice.’ He wasn’t the only one who could say one thing and mean something entirely different. She pulled free from his restraining arm. ‘I think I’ll go to bed, if you’ll excuse me.’ And, with a calmness that surprised her, she turned and walked away.
‘Do you think you can manage by yourself tonight?’ His voice carried across the camp, bringing her to a halt. ‘If not, will you leave your pyjamas out? I had the devil’s own job finding them last night.’
She stumbled as her knees sagged. Before she could recover herself Lukas was there, holding her arm, supporting her.
‘I’m sorry. George, please forgive me. I shouldn’t have done that.’ She was too shaken to register that concern, and something warmer, had replaced the cold anger in his eyes.
‘Did you? Put me to bed?’ But she didn’t need to ask. It was quite obvious he had. She recalled his amusement when she had said she couldn’t remember going to bed. The last thing she remembered was lying down and then it was morning.
‘Come on, my love. I’ll light the lamp for you.’ He led her stiff body to the tent but she could not, would not go inside.
‘George?’ But she stood with her toes digging into the ground through her shoes, refusing to budge. He responded by putting an arm around her waist and picking her up. He held her against his chest and she could feel his heart beating fast as he kept her close.
‘No!’ she whispered desperately, but he took no notice. He smiled suddenly and ducked inside.
‘Put me down,’ she pleaded with him.
‘Will you forgive me?’ he insisted.
‘Forgive you?’ she demanded. ‘How can I? I don’t know what you did.’ Desperately she tried to shake free of him, but he wouldn’t release her and she knew that if she didn’t make him let her go it would be too late for both of them. She tried again. ‘Did you enjoy yourself? Undo the buttons one by one? Have a good look?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Well?’
He merely smiled. ‘I meant forgive me for shouting it to the world, Georgette. I didn’t do anything to you that I need be ashamed of.’
His calmness incensed her. ‘Well, that’s really reassuring. I’m supposed to believe that—’
His mouth cut off the words and his kiss destroyed the last shreds of resistance she had clung to.
Lukas groaned and at last set her on her feet, holding her against him, staring at her as if he had never seen her before. ‘Damn you, Georgette Bainbridge. What is it about you that stops me behaving rationally?’ His lips fluttered over her eyes. ‘Two days and I’ve been bewitched.’ He looked down at her and shook his head. ‘I’m too old to feel like this.’
‘I’m not,’ George breathed.
From the moment his mouth took possession of her, she acknowledged that it had been inevitable, the sparring between them nothing but mental foreplay. She had been waiting for this, wanting it ever since he had crossed the lobby of the Norfolk Hotel and turned his disbelieving eyes upon her. Now her senses were swimming with pleasure and she moaned in protest when he lifted his head to stare at her in amazement.
‘Dear God! This can’t be real.’
‘Lukas …’ She reached up and laced her fingers in his dark wayward hair. But she didn’t need to beg. Already his lips had reclaimed hers, firing her with a desperate need as desire flickered and ignited under his expert touch. He shifted his grip, seeking the buttons that fastened her shirt and flicking them effortlessly apart. George arched towards him as long fingers brushed aside the lace cup of her bra, seeking a nipple already hard and aching for his touch. Nothing had ever prepared her for this onslaught upon her senses and she was totally without defences … ready to submit to a man she barely knew … more than ready …
‘Lukas!’ Walter’s voice was sharp outside the tent.
‘What the hell …?’ And he groaned as he straightened and stared down at her. ‘I’ll be right with you, Walter.’
‘No!’ Her voice came out a long, low, hungering moan as he released her and fumbled for the matches. At the second attempt he managed to light the gas lamp. ‘Don’t leave me, Lukas,’ she begged.
He gripped the table hard and she could see his knuckles whiten in the gaslight. His face was ashen as he turned to George. ‘I think it would be better if you were asleep when I come back,’ he said thickly before disappearing through the opening.
‘Lukas, I warned you …’
‘I just had a bit of trouble with the lamp, Walter. Now, what are we going to do tomorrow …?’ His voice faded as they walked back to the mess tent.
George sank on to her camp bed, weak with frustrated longing. She curled up and hugged herself, pressing her legs together tightly to deny the urgent need Lukas had awoken in her, calling him every name she could think of for abandoning her in such a state.
For a while she was sure he must come back. Had to come back to her. But he didn’t come and all that was left to do was go to bed, by herself. She pulled back the sheet. A small spider, startled by the sudden light, flattened itself in panic against the bed. George stared at it for a moment and then with an impatient gesture she scooped it up and threw it out into the night.
She knew she wouldn’t sleep. She didn’t even bother to try. Instead she picked up the book she had brought with her: Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter. She had read it a long time ago, and had bought the paperback copy at the airport, amused by the aptness of the title. It would no doubt repay a second look.
* * *
There was no sound from Lukas as she poured herself a cup of tea in the hooded light of the torch, and she took it through to the wash tent where she dressed in her favourite designer jeans, firmly tucking in a white T-shirt to reveal the generous line of her figure and her narrow waist. There was no further point in playing the dowd, she thought, as she vigorously brushed her hair and left it to hang loose in a shining curtain around her shoulders.
Satisfied with the result, she made her bed. Lukas groaned and turned over. ‘Must you make so much noise?’ he demanded, and then subsided, clearly wishing he hadn’t spoken.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ George asked, examining with serenity his forlorn expression. He had stumbled in at some unearthly hour and fallen on to the camp bed. She had pretended to be asleep and for a while she had resolutely rejected the attractive notion of undressing him.
‘You haven’t, by any chance, got something for a bad head, have you?’
Expressionless, she produced a packet of pain-killers from her bag and poured a glass of water from the flask on the table. ‘These might help,’ she said, without sympathy. He had, after all, no one but himself to blame. If he had stayed and made love to her he wouldn’t be in such a miserable condition.
‘I doubt it,’ he growled but took them and swallowed the water, then lay back with a groan. George poured him a cup of tea and left him to it.
She sat alongside the river, waiting for the dawn, and allowed herself a forlorn smile. It had been too good an opportunity to miss. Too perfect a revenge for his public humiliation of her, for his abandonment …
She had lain in the darkness until even breathing announced that he was dead to the world. Her eyes, already accustomed to the darkness by her long, wakeful vigil, had had no trouble in finding the buttons of his blue denim shirt. He had obviously started to undo them, but given up the effort. She had rapidly finished the job and eased the shirt up his back and over his head, trying not to think about his warm skin pressed against the thin silk of her pyjamas, and the well-built athletic body she had seen in all its splendour only that morning.
She had examined his sleeping face. He had a rugged sort of beauty in repose, and she had gently traced the outline of his jaw with her fingers. She had thought of him as someone she barely knew, but that wasn’t true. He had been a part of her since their first meeting. His kiss had woken a sleeping passion in her that she had chosen to believe was anger, and perhaps that had been a part of it. But you couldn’t stay angry with someone for three years without them carving a deep im
pression into your heart.
She had kissed him lightly on the mouth and wondered if he had taken the same liberty. She hoped he had. She had slipped the button of his trousers and pulled down the zip, easing them over his narrow hips and down dangerously long legs. A pair of very large bush boots had prevented their removal and she pulled them off. George had stood up and surveyed her victim, lying full length, defenceless in only a pair of white boxer shorts. She had hesitated, sensing a change in his breathing. With the faintest smile she had pulled a sheet over him.
‘Coward,’ he’d murmured, and she had flown back to the relative safety of her own bed, her cheeks burning.
Around her the birds began to shift and fidget now, and from the tent she heard a crash and a muffled curse. She packed away her camera and her fingers only shook a little as she dismantled the tripod.
She was sitting at the breakfast table making notes when Lukas appeared. His challenging expression, daring her to gloat, momentarily dented her composure. Then he sank into a chair and ran a hand over his unshaven face and she longed to comfort him, make him feel better. She firmly quashed the notion.
‘Coffee?’ she asked. He didn’t answer, but she poured him a cup and placed it in front of him. He made a noise that might have been ‘thanks’, but she couldn’t be sure. ‘Can I get you some fruit?’ He glared at her, then winced, as if even the movement of his face was too much to bear. She piled some grapefruit into a dish and placed it in front of him. ‘Vitamin C is recommended for a hangover, I believe.’
‘And what’s recommended for a surfeit of self-control?’
‘Self-control?’ Her voice shook slightly.
‘Wouldn’t you say I was excessively self-controlled when you practically raped me last night?’ He glowered and then, clearly wishing he hadn’t, rubbed his eyes. ‘Let me tell you, madam, that I am rather more the gentleman than you are a lady.’