A Flood of Sweet Fire

by Sandra Marton

  'Move, signorina, or .. .'

  'I certainly will not,' she said. 'i ... hey, stop that!

  Stop .. .'

  From that moment on, everything seemed to happen with the speed of an old movie. Blair felt her feet leave the ground, and she kicked backwards as hard as she could. She heard a sharp intake of breath from the man on her left-the one who oozed bad smells from every pore-am! then a startled exclamation in Italian.

  'Basta, the other man snarled, and his hand tightened on her arm until she gasped, and then, suddenly, he made a strange, gargling noise. His hand fell away from her and he crumpled to his knees. A second later, the man she'd kicked gasped and fell in a heap. And then flashbulbs were going off in her face and people were yelling, and all at once a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a pale grey uniform was shoving the reporters away from her. The Desmond chauffeur, Blair thought giddily, and the man scooped her into his arms and hurried into the road.

  'Thank you,' she gasped. 'I .. .'

  Her teeth clattered together as he dumped her into the back seat of the Mercedes and slammed the door after her. She blinked and rubbed her jaw as he scrambled into the driver's seat.

  'You got there just in time,' she said. 'I .. .' She fell back as the man gunned the engine. The Mercedes sprang forwards. Blair's eyes widened-the Fiat loomed ahead, blocking the road. There was a metallic crunch and a barely perceptible thud, and the Fiat spun like a top, its rear a collapsed mass of twisted metal as the Mercedes sped past it, past the terminal, racing away from the crowd that had collected. Blair peered over her shoulder as the airport receded in the distance, and then tried to swallow the dryness in her throat as she turned towards the chauffeur.

  'I can't thank you enough,' she croaked, and then she laughed shakily at the sound of her own voice. 'Mer... my friends told me there were some paparazzi who would do anything to get a story, but this is ridiculous.' She took a breath and let it out slowly. 'Those men are crazy!'

  She waited for the driver to answer, but he didn't. He was intent on driving, his leather-gloved hands lying alert and powerful on the steering wheel. His shoulders blocked her view of the windscreen. He was big-you could see that, even though he was seated. And he was strong. She could recall how easily he'd lifted her from the pavement. A good thing he was, she thought with a shiver. Those loonies ... Would they follow her, even now? It was as if the driver had read her mind. His eyes shifted to the rear-view mirror.

  'Are they coming after us?' Blair asked.

  The man's eyes met hers in the mirror. They were almost the same silvery color as his uniform, and-just as devoid of emotion. He said nothing.

  'I guess they got carried away in their rush for a story,' Blair said. Again, she waited for him to speak. Finally, she laughed nervously and ran her hand through her hair. 'They weren't really going to do anything, were they?'

  The chauffeur's lips turned up in a cool smile. His eyes flickered over her reflection and then he looked away, intent on the road ahead. Blair glanced down at herself and flushed. Her dress had ridden up over her knees, and its top button had popped open. Quickly, her, fingers trembling, she closed the button and smoothed down the skirt. She glanced up, just in time to see the man's eyes on her again.

  'You-er-you hit those men awfully hard, don't you think?'

  Silence. Blair ran her tongue across her lips and tried again. 'I mean, I'm sure they got what they deserved, but I wouldn't want you to be charged with anything on my account.'

  He looked into the mirror again. A brief flash of something-amusement? Blair wondered-lit his eyes and then he looked away. The Mercedes was fairly flying. The car hugged the road but, even so, Blair could tell that they were moving very fast.

  'Er-could we go a little slower, Mr ... Mr ... ?'

  There was no answer. You probably didn't call a chauffeur Mister, she thought, but she wasn't going to worry about the protocol of the rich and famous right now.

  'What's your name?' she asked.

  Still silence. Blair grimaced. Welcome to Italy, she thought. First, two crazed paparazzi were trying to do God knew what just to get a scoop, and now she was stuck in a car travelling at the speed of sound with a silent chauffeur ...

  Dummy! The man probably didn't speak a word of English. This is Italy, Blair, remember? Not the good old U S of A ....

  'Scusi, , she said in halting Italian, trying desperately to remember the few Italian phrases she'd insisted Meryl drum into her head. 'Scusi, signor. Prego, comment s'appelle ... ' That was French, not Italian. Como se llamo? No, no, that was Spanish. She took a breath and tried again. 'Signor, come si chiama?' That was it! 'Io non parlo Italiano. Io ... Oh, God, I wish you spoke English!'

  The silver-grey eyes met hers. 'I speak it impeccably,' he said.

  Blair let out a sigh of relief at the sound of his American accent. 'Thank heavens,' she said, falling back against the seat. 'For a minute I thought ... Thanks very much. You saved my life back there.'

  She smiled into the rear-view mirror as his eyes met hers again, but his expression, what little she could see of it, remained impassive.

  'No problem,' he said finally.

  'Well, I ... 1 just wanted to thank you. I ... What do I call you? I mean, you must have a name.' For some reason she couldn't determine, she laughed nervously. 'Hunter.'

  His voice was flat, the intonation cold. Blair swallowed drily. She had little experience with servants and none with chauffeurs-back in LA, Meryl drove her own fire engine red Corvette-but this man certainly didn't seem to be going out of his way to be pleasant. Not that he had to be. All he had to be was competent, and he seemed to be that, she thought. The Mercedes was moving along rapidly, passing other cars with ease. A ten-minute trip to the villa, Meryl had said. Then they were probably almost there. Thank goodness. It would be very nice to go back to being Blair Nolan again. It would be wonderful, in fact. It would be ...

  A ten-minute trip? Blair glanced at her watch. She was still on New York time-it had been confusing enough to gain three hours during the five-hour flight from Los Angeles to New York, without gaining six hours more in the time difference between New York and Rome, and so she'd decided to wait before resetting her watch again. But the passage of minutes was still the same. The plane had touched down at ten minutes after the hour. She'd left thirty-five minutes later-she'd noticed the big clock as she hurried through the terminal-and even allowing for all the confusion after that, not more than another twenty minutes could have elapsed. But her watch showed that almost forty minutes had gone by. How long had the Mercedes been eating up the road? A long time, she thought, and a chill feathered along her spine. Certainly a lot longer than ten minutes.

  She had a sudden, awful thought. Lord, how embarrassing if. ...

  'Ex-excuse me,' she said, clearing her throat and sitting forwards on the seat. 'I ... I just wondered .. She laughed nervously. 'This is the Desmond car, isn't it?'

  The driver glanced into the mirror. His lips parted, drawing back from even, white teeth in a smile that chilled Blair's bones.

  'You are Meryl Desmond, aren't you?' he asked softly. She would for ever remember her brief hesitation. Tell him no, she thought suddenly, tell him you're not, tell him ... But that was silly. She had agreed to be Meryl Desmond until she reached the villa. The hard part was over; this was the easy stuff. Blair smiled into the mirror.

  'Yes, 'she said finally, 'of course I am.'

  His voice was a silken whisper. 'In that case,' he said, 'this is the Desmond car.'

  CHAPTER TWO

  IF YOU'RE Meryl Desmond, then this is the Desmond car. That was what he'd said. It was what she'd wanted to hear-wasn't it? Then why did she have this sudden hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach? There was something strangely chilling in his soft, almost mocking tone, Blair looked up quickly, seeking Hunter's reflection in the mirror, but his concentration seemed centred on the narrow road, which had turned into a twisting track that spiraled upwards.

  Her im
agination was working overtime, she thought, shaking her head impatiently. There was nothing wrong with what he'd said. His reply to her question had been a bit insolent; No, not insolent, exactly. Arrogant; Yes, that was the word. Arrogant. That was the way he'd behaved from the start; Not that his attitude was her problem, of course. Still, she'd tell Mr Desmond that the muscle-bound guy in the silver suit was hardly chauffeur material.

  'Are we almost there?' she asked suddenly, her voice unnaturally loud in the silence.

  'Almost'

  A single word this time, but that damned touch of insolence was in his tone. Her eyes flashed to the mirror. Meryl Desmond wouldn't let him get away with this kind of nonsense. Well, it was time to show Mr Hunter who was in charge here.

  'What does "almost" mean, Hunter? Five minutes?

  Ten? Half an hour?'

  'Twenty minutes or so, Miss Desmond.'

  Blair nodded. 'Thank you,' she said crisply.

  'You're welcome,' he answered silkily, and then his eyes slid from hers.

  Damn the man! Did he always have to have the last word? Did it always have to sound vaguely menacing? There was something strange about him, something ... something threatening. Yes, that was the word for Hunter. There was a hint of violence in him, in the way he spoke, the way he smiled, even the way he moved. Blair's eyes focused on his back, on the play of muscle beneath the grey jacket, on the way his shoulders stretched the fabric. She could still remember the ease with which he'd swung her into his arms at the airport, the solid feel of muscle beneath her hands as she'd clung to him. Her glance moved to his thick, dark hair and the way it curled silkily over the stiff, stand-up uniform collar. Didn't chauffeurs wear caps?

  Suddenly, it seemed important to see Hunter's face.

  Strange, she thought, they'd been in this damned car over an hour, she was sure of that, but she still didn't know what he looked like. His eyes were that strange silver-grey color, his nose was narrow and his mouth a hard, thin line-but she had no idea how all those things looked together, although she suspected that if she could manage to put them in the perspective of a face, the man driving this damned car to God only knew where was good-looking.

  He certainly wasn't your usual chauffeur, she thought, and then she shook her head. What was that supposed to mean? She didn't know a damned thing about what chauffeurs were supposed to look like. Besides, that was silly. Chauffeurs were people, that was all. They looked like anybody else and they drove cars for a living, although somehow she couldn't picture the man at the wheel of the Mercedes driving Meryl's father from place to place, waiting patiently outside one of the Desmond factories or offices.

  Her pulse quickened. Stop that nonsense! What else is he if not a chauffeur? Her imagination was taking over again. Well, why wouldn't it? She'd been all keyed up ever since they'd left the States. And she hadn't slept a wink during the flight. Jet lag that was it. What she needed was a hot bath and a long nap, and surely she'd have both any minute now. Blair took a breath and leaned forwards.

  'Mr Hunter?' He looked into the mirror and she smiled politely. 'Aren't we going awfully fast?'

  'Mr Hunter?' he repeated. 'Are you always so formal with your servants?'

  She flushed. 'Are you always so rude?' 'Forgive me, Miss Desmond.'

  His tone made a mockery of the apology. For an instant, she was tempted to tell him he was wasting his insults if he thought he was heaping them on his employer’s daughter, but then she changed her mind. A man like this would probably be even ruder to her if he knew she was an impostor. Let the Desmonds worry about their new chauffeur's behavior.

  'I take it there's been a change of plans,' she said calmly. 'I mean-we're not going to the villa, is that right?'

  'Quite right.'

  She waited for him to say something more. Finally, she looked into the mirror. He was looking at it, too, but his eyes were focused beyond hers.

  'Would you mind telling me where we're going?' she asked impatiently. 'Somewhere safe.'

  What was that supposed to mean? 'Where, exactly?' 'Outside Rome.'

  Blair clicked her tongue. 'I can tell we're outside Rome .. .'. "

  'Clever girl,' he said softly.

  'And I don't like your tone, Mr Hunter,' she said angrily. 'I intend to tell Mr ... to tell my father that you're insolent.'

  He grinned. "You mean I'm not what he told you to expect?"

  He was new to the job, Meryl had said. Well, she thought grimly, he wouldn't be the Desmond chauffeur very long, not if she had anything to do with it.

  'I expect to be treated with courtesy and respect,' Blair said curtly. 'When I tell him how you behaved .. .'

  His harsh laughter cut her off in mid-sentence. 'You're scaring the wits out of me, Miss Desmond. I'm positively terrified.'

  Something was very wrong here. Blair took a deep breath.

  'You haven't answered my question,' she said. 'I asked you where we were going.'

  'Look, just make yourself comfortable, OK? I haven't got time to do a travelogue.'

  The artificially chilled air inside the Mercedes suddenly seemed frigid. 'Hunter,' she said,' hoping he couldn't hear the fear in her voice, 'I want to know where you're taking me. I demand …

  Blair gasped as the car shot forwards. 'Shut up and put your seat-belt on,' he said, staring past her in the mirror.

  'Don't you dare give me orders, Hunter! I asked you a question .. .'

  'Put the belt on, Miss Desmond. If you make me stop and do it for you, you'll regret it.'

  Her heart banged against her ribs as she fumbled with the belt buckle. Was he crazy? The car was still picking up speed, rocking from side to side as it ate up the narrow road. Hunter was bent forwards over the steering wheel, glancing occasionally into the mirror, his mouth grim. The taste of fear, copper-sharp and acidic, filled Blair's mouth. OK, she thought, OK, it's time to face facts. She was trapped in a car with a crazy man. She looked into the mirror and then she reached out carefully and touched the door handle.

  And then what? For starters, the door was probably locked electronically. Expensive cars had all kinds of electronic gadgets. Even she knew that. And if it weren't, what next? Only a fool would jump out of a car speeding along the way this one was. She was scared, she thought, but she wasn't stupid ...

  Play it cool, Blair. Act as if you're in command here.

  Take a deep breath. Good. Now, take another ...

  'OK,' she said firmly, 'that's enough. I demand that you stop this car at once.' There was no answer. Blair leaned forwards as far as the seat-belt would permit. 'Did you hear me?' she demanded. 'I told you to stop this car. I. . .'

  Hunter glanced into the mirror, his eyes icy and dismissive.

  'Shut up.'

  'Listen, Hunter, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but .. .'

  'I haven't got the time for this, Miss Desmond. Just sit back and keep quiet.'

  'I will not keep quiet! And you're to slow down, do you hear? This second. This .. .'

  'Dammit to hell, Desmond,' he snarled, 'shut up or I'll .. .'

  The unspoken threat hung in the air between them.

  Blair's eyes widened, and she sank back against the' leather seat. Nothing made sense. Unless .. a paparazzi after an exclusive story? Meryl had told her Italian reporters did crazy things but this was insane! Nobody would ... Her mind refused to accept the word. Nobody would kidnap Meryl Desmond for a story ...

  'No!"

  The whispered cry was torn from her throat. No, it couldn't be. It couldn't! But suddenly Meryl's voice was in her head, as clearly as if they were seated next to each other.

  'I love Italy,' Meryl had said when they were packing. 'The people, the food, the climate-the only thing is, I won't have the freedom I have here in the States.' 'Because of the paparazzi, you mean,' Blair had said, and Meryl had sighed.

  'I wasn't thinking of them. There have been some abductions in Italy, Blair. You must have read about it in the papers. Kidnapping for ransom. Da
ddy's always worried about it, and especially this summer, with labour troubles at his mills-well, I'll just have to get used to not straying from the villa without an escort.'

  Oh, God, Blair thought, staring at the dark head before her. No, please ...

  The car slid around another curve and she fell sideways, banging her elbow against the door.

  Hunter must have heard the thud. He looked into the mirror; his eyes locked with hers and the breath caught In her throat. The look of cool amusement and insolence had been replaced by one of ruthless calculation.

  'So you finally figured it out did you? Why the surprise, Miss Desmond? You've always known this might happen.'