Dangerous Ground (Harlequin Presents, December 118)

by Alison Kelly

  ‘Call me cautious,’ he said drily. ‘But only if it comes out of the refrigerator.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me to discover if you look as good wearing cold liquids as you do hot,’ she said, walking to the small, functional kitchen and refusing to acknowledge the smile which had accompanied his words.

  ‘At least you admit that you think I looked good this afternoon. Was that before or after I dropped my jeans?’

  Jacqui wasn’t sure if it was his tone or the mental picture of him clad only in black underwear and T-shirt, but one of the two caused her to belt her head on the rack of the refrigerator. She swore.

  ‘You OK?’ came the amused enquiry from the living-room.

  ‘Fine,’ she muttered, rubbing her scalp and wondering how long she’d have to stay crouched in front of the fridge to cool her flaming face. ‘Beer, juice or milk?’ she yelled.

  ‘Beer sounds good.’ The response came from directly behind her. ‘Problems?’

  ‘Er—no.’ She hurried to her feet and turned around. Not a good move—it brought her face to face with him. He was so close that they were both standing in the wedge of space formed by the opened door of the refrigerator.

  ‘You have beautiful hair,’ he said, lifting one side to catch it behind her ear, and in the process brushing his fingers against her cheek. The effect of his knuckles against her skin was such that she half expected the heat she was emitting to defrost the freezer and drown them both.

  ‘Th—thank you,’ she stammered. ‘I’m thinking of getting it cut. You know, get rid of the Risque image for good and—’

  He frowned. ‘Not before my project you don’t. You might be blessed with incredible beauty and a body most men are floored by, but your hair is your greatest asset.’

  ‘Really? I happen to think it’s my personality—but then you’d know nothing about that, since you don’t have one!’ She pushed him aside and shoved a long-necked bottle at his chest. ‘Your beer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, a wealth of amusement in his voice.

  ‘Glass?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Oh, getting back to your hair, I… Let’s see, how can I put this tactfully…?’

  ‘From what I’ve seen of you, Flanagan, I doubt if you could put or do anything tactfully.’

  ‘In that case I won’t bother,’ he said. ‘But if I’d seen as much of you as you’ve seen of me I mightn’t have to ask this question; are you a natural blonde? Because if not we could have a colour co-ordination problem during the shoot.’

  It wasn’t the question which made her angry—she’d had it thrown at her constantly early in her career—no, what ticked her off was that he was being deliberately provocative. She was torn between instinctive rage and economic common sense, but as she formulated her response the burr of the phone that linked directly to the main house filled the room. Thanking God for His timely intervention, she picked it up on the second ring.

  ‘Hi, what’s up?’ she asked, smiling when Phil’s voice explained that he was just checking to see if she wanted him to turn off the pool lights.

  ‘Thanks, but no. Flanagan’s still here. We’re discussing the shoot details.’

  ‘OK then. Well, goodnight, Jac. Will we see you at breakfast?’

  ‘Breakfast? Any chance of getting it in bed, Phil?’

  ‘Yeah, but not in this lifetime!’ came the chuckled response before the line went dead.

  The look on Flanagan’s face reminded her that he thought Phil was her boyfriend. She smirked, the idea of having a little fun and getting her own back on him appealing. She continued the charade of talking to Phil.

  ‘In that case I’ll see you at brekkie.’ She paused, then giggled. ‘Promises, promises.’ Another pause. She was aware of Patric hovering between the kitchen and the living-room, but didn’t look at him. ‘OK, Philly, I’ll wake you when I get in. Sweet dreams.’ She hung up wearing a stupid grin.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ she asked, turning back to Flanagan, who was now sprawled in an armchair. ‘Oh, right, my being blonde. I really am a natural, you know—’ She slapped her hand against her forehead. ‘Darn it! I should have let you check it out with Phil.’

  ‘Forget it!’ he snapped. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Now, as you pointed out, it’s getting late, and unless we get down to business you’re not going to make your breakfast-date!’

  Escaping to the kitchen on the pretext of getting her beer, Jacqui managed to keep her amusement private.

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said when they were seated in the living-room and separated by the now clear coffee-table. ‘I want no one prematurely tipping off the Press about this shoot. Timing on this is going to be vital for maximum impact.’

  ‘Fine with me,’ she said. ‘But how are you going to guarantee that the lab guys who handle the developing won’t blab?’

  ‘Easy. I’m going to do everything myself.’

  Tell me exactly how you envisage doing this layout, and I’ll see if I have any problems with it. I want it—’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Let me guess…you want it to be tasteful?’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Flanagan,’ she said. ‘Actually, I was going to say that I want it to be successful. Believe me, if I thought for one second that you were entertaining anything pornographic I’d be on the phone and having you blacklisted with every modelling agency in the country.’

  She wasn’t joking. If there was one thing she couldn’t tolerate it was fast-talking photographers who exploited models for personal gain and the gratification of perverts.

  ‘I’ve never had any time for pornographers, Jaclyn,’ he told her. ‘But the point is taken.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘But, be warned, I’ll want the whole thing in writing and cleared by my solicitor before you take one shot.’

  ‘I expected as much. But, like I said, I want secrecy on this and I’ll be insisting on a clause to that effect. If anything is leaked to the media via you or your legal advisers, I’ll sue the backsides off the lot of you.’ He pinned her with a spearlike look. ‘Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ she said sweetly. ‘And I’ll make sure I have the same clause written into mine.’

  He didn’t bother to hide his amusement. ‘In that case we ought also to include a clause stating that when we do decide to go public we do it together.’

  Jacqui wasn’t sure that she even wanted to be in the country once the word was out that she’d done a centrefold, let alone be present at the public announcement. ‘That’s not necessary,’ she said graciously. ‘I don’t have a problem with you handling that part of it. Providing, of course,’ she added, ‘you don’t turn it into a three-ring circus.’

  ‘Listen, for the money you’re getting you’re going to be involved with every bit of publicity my PR people think you should be,’ he told her. ‘And you’ll also agree not to do any more skin sessions for at least five years.’

  While Jacqui hoped that the money she was going to get from this would mean she’d never have to do any type of modelling again, much less another centrefold, his bossy, arrogant attitude stabbed at her streak of perversity.

  ‘I’m twenty-five years old, Flanagan; a five-year restriction will limit my future options. A thirty-year-old isn’t going to have much of a chance against nubile young things ten years her junior. I think you’re being unreasonable.’

  ‘Tough,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Yeah, on my future!’

  ‘Well, then, my advice is stay off the booze, keep out of the sun and get plenty of exercise. You’ve got good bone-structure, you should hold up OK. If not—’ he shrugged ‘—practise your art of seduction and that sexy pout of yours, and snare yourself a wealthy TV executive. Who knows? It could be the start of a whole new career. A pretty woman can make a whole pile of money as a second-rate actress.’

  ‘She can make a “whole pile of money” as a prostitute too; I’m surprised you didn’t suggest that!’ Jacqui sn
apped.

  Her outrage turned her eyes to the fiery blue of opal and Patric found it incredible that the utter serenity of her facial features could belong to a person with such a passionate and tempestuous personality. It was no secret that the camera adored her, but so far, in the myriad photographs and advertisements he’d seen of her, no photographer had managed to co-ordinate the timing of the shutter with the sudden, unexpected passion that sparked from her eyes. Patric believed that he could. The idea excited him. Dammit, she excited him.

  Even sitting there in old hiking shorts and a T-shirt big enough to house them both, she was stirring a level of awareness in him that quite frankly should have had him running for the door. Deciding that if he could placate her it might just stop him from hauling her into his arms and kissing her senseless, he said, ‘Once my book is released I’m sure—’

  ‘Your book?’

  He smiled as confusion caused the anger to ebb from her features. ‘Yeah. You see, Jaclyn, I’m not planning your average run-of-the-mill pin-up or calendar, here. I’m planning a hard-covered, glossy coffee-table book. I mean, if it worked for Madonna…’

  ‘You want to publish an entire book of nude photos—of me?’

  ‘Nope. I want to publish an entire book of Australian landscapes. But I need an angle to generate interest from publishers. You are going to be that angle.’

  Jacqui sat back and assessed what he’d just told her: she was going to be the bait to hook the publishers.

  ‘In other words I’m just going to be a backdrop.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said quickly. ‘You’re going to have to feature quite prominently in the foreground of every shot you’re in.’

  ‘But I’m not going to be in every shot, am I? And it’s the ones I’m not in that you intend to be the most spectacular.’

  ‘Ah, Jaclyn.’ He smirked. ‘You underestimate yourself. Where’s your self-esteem?’

  ‘Unlike yours, kept in check!’ Flanagan wasn’t interested in profiling her, only his skill as a photographer. While the publishers could use the photographs featuring her to flog the books to the curious general public, he believed the quality of the other shots would have the heavyweights of the photographic world beating a path to his door. Whatever he earned through negotiating the deal and royalties would simply be a bonus.

  She looked at him and couldn’t help smiling; clearly he had a big opinion of himself.

  ‘What part do you find amusing?’ he asked, with a frown.

  ‘Your arrogance.’

  ‘You don’t think the idea will sell? You doubt my ability as a photographer?’

  ‘Oh, I think the idea will sell,’ she said truthfully. Actually, she thought it a stroke of genius, but she wasn’t telling him that. ‘As for your ability…’ She shrugged. ‘You’re Wade’s son, so that must count for something—’

  ‘Judge me on my merits, not my blood lines! The fact I’m Wade’s son doesn’t come into it!’

  It would have been a reasonable request if it hadn’t been so heatedly delivered, but Jacqui didn’t say so.

  ‘Fine! But I expect equal consideration! Just because you’ve assumed I’m a dumb blonde doesn’t mean I am one.’

  ‘So I’m learning.’

  He smiled, and the combination of straight white teeth and warm, amused eyes had such a devastating effect on her that she was certain that had she not been seated she’d have swooned. There was no doubt about it—this man’s sexual armoury came under the heading of ‘Nuclear’. In an effort to avoid total meltdown of her system Jacqui forced her mind back to business.

  ‘What’s this Australian landscapes thing you mentioned?’ she asked. ‘Are we talking places like Katherine Gorge, the Great Barrier Reef—?’

  He cut her off. ‘No—places like that and Ayers Rock have been done to dea—’

  ‘You mean Uluru.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Uluru,’ she repeated. ‘It’s not called Ayers Rock any more, it’s called Uluru. That’s its aboriginal name.’

  ‘Yeah? Shows how long I’ve been away from home, doesn’t it?’

  He was about to launch back into his plans for the shoot when he noticed something gold reflecting up from between the arm of his chair and its cushion. It was a cheap, goldplated identification bracelet—not the kind he’d have expected to belong to the woman opposite him, but it was hers all right. The inscription proved it. It also set his curiosity racing again.

  ‘Flanagan, are you listening to me?’

  The impatient tone jolted him from his musings. ‘Sorry. What were you saying?’

  ‘It wasn’t important, but can we get on with this?’ she asked. ‘It’s getting awfully late.’

  ‘Sure. Where were we?’

  ‘You were explaining the locations for the shoot.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Right Well, like I said, most of the well-known Australian landscapes have been overexposed. This time I want to try something different—’

  ‘Such as totally exposing me.’

  He laughed. ‘True. But I also want to focus on some of the less publicised, unravished areas of beauty in Australia.’ He met her gaze.

  ‘Don’t even think about saying what I know you’re thinking,’ she warned.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he lied, amusement creasing his face as he continued. ‘Areas such as Ellenbrough Falls in northern NSW, Kangaroo Island off South Australia, various little out-of-the-way spots in Queensland and Victoria—’

  ‘You can’t seriously intend to tramp all around the country?’

  ‘Yep. That’s exactly what I intend to do.’

  ‘But that’ll take ages!’ she protested.

  ‘Not your part. I’ve already selected the areas I want to feature you in. Your commitment to the project shouldn’t take more than three or four weeks, tops.’

  ‘But how am I supposed to get to all these remote places? It’s not like they’re on major airline routes.’ She looked even more doubtful. ‘And where would I stay? If they aren’t established tourist areas it isn’t likely that they’ll have much in the way of accommodation.’

  ‘True,’ he agreed. He could have alleviated her concerns by admitting that he’d intended booking her into the closest top hotel available and having her flown daily to and from the shoot locations by chartered helicopter, but he didn’t The heat of the bracelet in his hand was inspiring an idea so outrageous that it was almost bizarre. He wondered if he was really so insane as to be considering it.

  He looked at the woman opposite—who, even dressed as she was, seemed to epitomise elegance—looked at her classically perfect features, her clear blue eyes and creamy skin, and decided that he was definitely insane.

  He wanted the chance to cut through the veneer, to see if there was anything of the teenage girl who’d apparently called herself Jacko left in the sophisticate who was known as the Risque Girl. He suspected that there was—part of it being the elusive flashes of passion he’d seen, and he wanted that passion on film.

  Of course, he’d bet that the only time it surfaced was when the spoilt Ms Raynor was finding things a tad too tough for her, and, while the shoots would be tiring work, air-conditioned luxury hotels and chartered helicopters to and from the locations weren’t exactly going to be a hardship for a professional model like her. But what if she really had to rough it?

  ‘You might be looking for this,’ he said, handing the bracelet to her.

  ‘Oh, thanks!’ She took it with embarrassed haste.

  ‘Has it sentimental value?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s its only value. I got it when I was fifteen.’

  ‘In that case it’s lucky I found it.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she agreed carelessly.

  ‘Jaclyn,’ he said, with assumed casualness, ‘are you still keen to try backpacking?’

  ‘Backpacking?’ She frowned. ‘What, you mean round Europe?’

  ‘No, I’m thinking of something a little closer to home.’

  She gave a confu
sed shake of her head. ‘I don’t get what you mean.’

  ‘It’s simple. I was planning to go by four-wheel-drive to the various shoot locations.’ He paused, sensing that he was making the biggest mistake of his life. ‘How are you at navigating?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JACQUI perched on the edge of one of the chairs which graced the front veranda of the main house, waiting for Patric. She felt like an emotional cocktail which had been shaken with enough force to register eight plus on the Richter scale.

  Hardly surprising, she thought, considering everything she’d been through in the last ten days. Not only had she endured endless confrontations with the arrogant Mr Flanagan—both on the phone and face to face—as they’d fought out details regarding their arrangements, but she’d ricocheted from one legal appointment to another.

  There had been meetings with her solicitor, Flanagan’s solicitor, Flanagan and his solicitor and, of course, her solicitor, and with the dozen or so legal eagles that represented Risque Cosmetics—the last in order to end formally her commitment to the company. After all the legal mumbo-jumbo she’d had to study Jacqui felt as if she could have sat for the Bar exam today and passed it! Unfortunately she faced nothing so simple.

  She checked her watch; Patric wasn’t due for another ten minutes. He’d said 6 a.m., and, if there was anything she’d learned from the myriad meetings they’d had, it was that punctuality was only seconds away from being an obsession with him. Well, she’d learned that and the fact that what she was doing to her hormones, by agreeing to accompany him on these safari-like shoots, was probably listed as cruel and inhuman treatment! She only had to be in the same room as him and her pulse started sprinting. Which was damned irritating since she didn’t even like him.

  Her sigh turned into a yawn. She was dead tired. She’d not finished packing until after midnight, and the moment she’d crawled into bed Mother Nature had staged a rock concert complete with stroboscopic lightning and heavy-metal thunder. Sleep had finally embraced her somewhere between two a.m. and two-thirty, but her alarm had brutally snatched her from its arms only a few hours later.

  Hearing a car slow as it neared the house, Jacqui checked her watch—one minute to six. No prizes for guessing who it was swinging into the driveway, but his choice of vehicle caused her to frown.