by Carol Gregor
On the plane they were apart, too. Cal pushed past where she was sitting and claimed a seat across the aisle, two rows in front, although he was neither out of sight nor mind since his profile was easily visible.
Which was a pity, she thought grimly, because she very much wanted to enjoy this trip as much as she could, despite the strained circumstances. Yet every time she glanced up she was forced to see his dark figure, and seethed with righteous anger at the brutal rudeness of his behaviour towards her.
Over the top of her plastic meal-tray she watched him wave away all food and drink and settle down in his seat to sleep. He seemed to drop off instantly, even before the cabin lights were dimmed, yet later, in the deep hours of the night, as the plane droned over the darkened desert below, she woke up and saw him also awake, a brooding figure staring into space, lost in the thread of his own thoughts.
In the dusky light she saw eyes as dark as stone, a stubborn hawk-like face and a hard, sensual mouth, and wondered what restless, turning thoughts had woken him.
She still knew so little about him, despite diligent efforts on her part to unearth whatever information she could find. Back in Yorkshire, where she had made a flying visit after he had given her the job, she had immediately enlisted the help of an old school-friend who worked in the library at the local television company, and had spent an afternoon reading through a stack of yellowing newspaper cuttings. The friend had also arranged for her to see a video of a documentary programme about him that had been made two years ago.
She had sat alone in the darkened viewing-booth watching Cal dodging mortar attacks in the Far East, Cal photographing flooded villages in Asia, Cal, grimy and exhausted, sprawled asleep in a lorry full of soldiers. He looked as tough and handsome as any Hollywood version of a war photographer, but he also looked utterly private and self-contained, she thought. The director of the film had been unable .to win an interview with him, and had had to rely on the impressions of friends and colleagues, so that the only hard information she had gained from her entire afternoon's researches was that Cal Fenton was thirty-two, single, a known womaniser, and completely devoted to his work, which had won him several fistfuls of awards and international prizes.
Although, she thought, as she watched him shift his long legs restlessly in the cramped airline seat, there had been one brief moment when the film had seemed to capture a different side of him.
He had been visiting an orphanage in India, and as the sad little scraps of children had crowded round him he had squatted in the dust among them and let them jostle close to him and finger his camera with wonder. And as he reached out his hand to a small boy hanging back in the crowd she had seen, for one fleeting second, deep tenderness and compassion in his eyes.
But perhaps it had been an illusion, she thought. Perhaps she had seen those emotions simply because she had wanted to. Certainly nothing in his curt manner today indicated any sign of a warmer human being hidden deep within his obnoxious shell.
Her thoughts moved restlessly until she became aware that the engine noise was changing, and the plane slowly began its long descent towards their destination.
The airport was deserted, but, even so, the luggage took forever to arrive on the carousel, and as luck would have it her suitcase was the very last item to come out. Cal had already marched on ahead and was clearly seething with impatience by the time she straggled out through Customs to join him.
'In here.' He pushed her into a taxi. 'For goodness' sake let's get going.'
The car roared off down the road. He sat in silence beside her. Clutching her courage in both hands, she said, 'Cal?'
'What is it?'
'If you were me, what would you pack for this trip?'
He looked at her, surprised. 'Shorts and T-shirts. Maybe a pair of trousers, a sweater. Sunglasses. Insect repellent. A book.'
'That's all?'
He shrugged. 'Washing powder. The usual basics. Some people find a corkscrew essential.'
She smiled. 'Like Mike. He never went anywhere without his Swiss army knife.'
'I remember.' His face set hard, as if the last thing on earth he wanted to talk about was her father. 'Why are you asking?'
'I'm just trying to work out what to jettison.'
'It's a bit late now. There'll be room enough in the Land Rover for your case.'
'It's not that. It's how I feel—all encumbered and amateurish.'
'Well, you are, aren't you?' His eyes glittered as he glanced across the dark car towards her. 'I'll lay odds you've never been further than the Costa Brava before.'
'Not even that,' she admitted ruefully. 'Aunt Jenny always had a soft spot for Bridlington.' Her eyes skimmed the blackness outside the windows of the taxi. 'I can't believe it's actually Africa out there.'
'Suburban Nairobi isn't exactly the furthest-flung corner of the earth.'
'It might not be to you, but to me it's as exotic as the upper reaches of the White Nile.'
She heard him sigh slightly. 'I hope I haven't been rash, bringing you along, Frankie.'
'Because of my naïveté? I can easily pretend a world-weary cynicism, if you'd rather. It just wouldn't be true!' She flung herself back in her seat, muttering to herself, 'Anyway, you've got enough for both of us.'
'What?'
'Nothing.'
He flashed her an angry glance. 'Naïveté I can live with. Childishness, I'm not so sure.'
They rode in a charged silence to the hotel, a low colonial-style building set in spreading gardens, and Cal paid the driver, banged the taxi door and marched on ahead. He plunged his hand down on to the bell, summoning a bleary-eyed desk clerk.
'Mr and Mrs Fenton,' he rapped out, 'and look sharp about it. We'd like to catch at least a few hours' sleep in what's left of tonight.'
'What?'
She could scarcely believe what she had just heard. Cal quelled her with a look that chilled her to her marrow.
'Room 205. If you'll sign here I'll show you the way.' The clerk scratched his stomach and regarded them without curiosity. Cal signed impatiently in a brisk, bold hand. Then the clerk picked up their bags and led them off down an open cloistered corridor. Exotic blossoms scented the warm night air, but she scarcely noticed them in her agitation, which burst out the minute the door closed behind them.
'What the hell do you think you're doing?'
Cal turned and faced her. 'I'm going to bed. I'm shattered.'
'Mr and Mrs Fenton!'
'For heaven's sake, Frankie, stop acting like a teenager. Society here isn't as sophisticated as it could be. I wasn't prepared to get into any aggravation about us having different names when we're sharing a room. Not at this time of night, anyway.'
'What?' She felt stupid with tiredness and dislocation. In the bright light of the room, Cal looked drawn, and she guessed she did, too. 'Sharing a room --'
'Oh, for God's sake!' He raked a hand through his hair. 'I told you. I told you all this in London, the very first time we met. I couldn't have spelled it out more clearly. That's why I needed a man for this job. But you still insisted a girl could do it, and I was desperate enough to take you at your word. I'm beginning to think it was a grave mistake --'
'Did you? Tell me, I mean.' Her green eyes searched his face doubtfully.
'I did,' he bit out. 'I told you the International Wildlife Society were paying for the trip, and that I had to keep costs to an absolute minimum.'
Her face showed her doubts. All she could remember was him telling her he was going to Africa, and the idea infusing her with such a sudden rush of enthusiasm that she had scarcely heard another word he had said. Even so.. .
'And in case you're wondering why I don't fork out and pay for another room myself,' he went on, as if reading her mind, 'it's because I don't see the need. You told me you could do the same job as a man, and I'm taking your word for it. You can have my absolute guarantee that I won't be taking any advantage of the situation --' His eyes ripped over hers and his mouth croo
ked with cold humour '—and I trust I can expect the same from you.'
'Oh, yes. I promise I won't ravage you in the middle of the night,' she said miserably. The room was clean, but small, and the twin beds were separated by nothing but a tiny bedside-table.
He followed her look and sighed harshly. 'Frankie, you'd better get used to it. We're going to be spending an awful lot of time together.' His eyes registered her lonely bleakness, but his look did not soften one bit.
She put her suitcase down slowly on the bed and took a deep breath. 'I'm used to it,' she said dully, and his eyes sparked at her tone.
'Good.' He shrugged his jacket back on. 'Now I'm going out for a five-minute walk. That should give you time to get to bed.'
'You don't have to --'
'I know I don't. I'm choosing to. If there's one thing I don't feel up to tonight it's squirming schoolgirl modesty. Goodnight.'
'Goodnight.' And good riddance, she mouthed silently, as the door banged behind him.
She washed and changed with indecent haste and was lying in darkness with the covers up to her nose when he came back in. He went to the bathroom. She pulled the covers over her head, tense as a bow-string. Soon he came out. She heard him walk past her bed, heard the rustle of cloth, the rasp of a zip as he undressed. The noises were shockingly close, indecently intimate. She wanted to gasp or giggle to release her tension. Then, tired and strained, she felt an overwhelming longing to be back safely tucked up in her own room at home again.
Why had she ever thought Yorkshire was dull? Or Aunt Jenny stifling? What was she doing here, alone in Africa, in uncomfortable proximity to the chilly likes of Cal Fenton?
She heard his bedsprings creak, heard him shift once or twice, then very quickly heard the deep, regular breathing of sleep. Slowly she untensed her muscles, and relaxed her posture. Cal must have learnt to sleep anywhere, under almost any circumstances, she thought, on planes and trains, in battles and bush camps. And no doubt there was nothing remotely strange to him about sharing his room with a woman.
Whereas to her. . . She opened her eyes, but the room was in pitch darkness. She could only sense, not see, the alien humped figure in the bed near by. To her, sharing a room with any man was an entirely new experience, let alone a man as mean and moody and dangerous as Cal Fenton.
CHAPTER FOUR
The birds woke Frankie up, singing an exotic chorus outside the window. She opened her eyes and remembered exactly where she was, and why. The light outside the window was bright, and she could hear maids clattering their buckets and brooms in the corridor outside. She looked at her watch. Eight o'clock. Quietly, she turned on her side and looked across to Cal's bed.
He lay deeply asleep. Some time in the night he had pushed the sheet down so that it now only half covered his hips. One arm was bent above his head, the other lay at his side.
She elbowed herself up and stared at him; she could not stop herself, there was such grace and strength in the lines of his body. His back was broad and brown, its close-packed muscles dipping to the narrowness of his hips, and his skin looked so warm and smooth that she wanted to reach out and touch it, just as the morning sun touched his hair and put the sheen of a starling's wing in its thick darkness. She swallowed. He was flawless, a perfect specimen of the male of the species. Or he would have been except for two small but deep scars that marked the muscle of one shoulder-blade.
She looked at them, then at his sleeping face. Were they the bullet wounds that had shattered his bones? Were those small marks the very reason that she was lying here, in this strange bed, in this strange continent?
'Yes, that's right.'
She jumped a mile at his deep, lazy voice.
'What --?'
'You were wondering if those scars were the cause of all this trouble. You've been studying me as if I was a carcass on a slab.'
He still seemed asleep, but when she looked more closely she could see that his eyes were open the merest fraction.
'I thought you were asleep!'
'I know.' He rolled over, stretching his arms and yawning. She saw a powerful chest, sprinkled with dark hair, and looked away. 'It's a useful skill, being able to play dead while having a good look round at the same time. It's come in handy on more than one occasion.'
'I'm surprised you aren't covered in scars, leading the life you do.'
'A tart can cover a multitude of sins.'
He turned his head sideways on the pillow, his eyes glinting, and observed casually, 'You know, if you always look like that in the morning, you're going to give me a lot of trouble sticking to the letter of our agreement.'
'What do you mean?'
He rolled his eyes, not speaking, and she looked down, then blushed furiously as she realised that her supposedly decorous pyjamas were unbuttoned almost to the waist, and that as she had leant up on her elbow to look at him she had been virtually naked to his gaze.
She lay flat, raking the sheets up to her neck. He looked at his watch and groaned. 'Three hours' sleep is definitely not enough. Did you sleep?'
'Like a log.'
'Not too disturbed by your new marital status after all?'
She laughed, then admitted, 'Well, a bit. I didn't drop off as quickly as you.'
'I'll wager it's the first time in your life you've slept with a man,' he observed casually.
'I wouldn't waste your money,' she bit back sharply. 'My private life stays just that—private.'
'You mean you don't mix work and pleasure? Well, that's a philosophy I entirely approve of. Now.' He moved a hand to his sheet and looked across at her. 'I plan to get up, and since I haven't a stitch on I suggest you preserve your maidenly modesty by shutting your eyes.'
She did meekly as she was told, and when he returned from the bathroom he was decently clad in bush-shirt and jeans, looking fresh and alert and ready to face the day.
'I'm going to be busy all day,' he said, checking his wallet and papers.
'What shall I do?'
'Two things. First pick up our Land Rover. I'll leave the address here. Then get us some stores; we'll need enough for a week in the bush. I'll leave the money here as well.' He put money and papers on the table. 'I'd also get some more sleep, if I were you. You may need some in the bank over the next few days.' His eyes went over her, swiftly taking in her auburn curls spread on the pillow, then he strode to the door. 'OK?'
'Yes. But --' she sat up in bed '—when you say stores --' It was useless. The door had closed on him before she had even framed the first of her myriad questions.
Well, she was on her own, but to her surprise the prospect did not daunt her in the least. Too excited to sleep further, she dressed in trousers and a T-shirt and went to have breakfast on the veranda. The sun warmed her skin and the strange scents of the city delighted her as she sat chewing on her pen and drawing up a shopping-list.
'Do you have a map of the city?' she asked the desk-clerk.
'Oh, yes, Mrs Fenton,' he said, producing one, and she stifled a giggle at the unfamiliar name.
The garage was a short walk away. She went into the office. 'You've got a Land Rover for Mr Fenton. I'm picking it up.'
There were a mass of forms to fill in. 'Your name, please?' said the owner.
She hesitated. 'Mrs Fenton. Mrs Frankie Fenton.'
'Your driving licence, please.' She handed it over. He frowned. 'This says O'Shea.'
'My maiden name. I've only just got married. You can check on me at the hotel if you want.'
'OK,' the man said slowly, then smiled. 'A honeymoon in the bush, eh? What could be more romantic?'
A lot, she thought to herself, an awful lot. But she smiled diplomatically and picked up the keys.
At the garage she enquired about shops, and from there pioneered her way to the city's main supermarket. It was small and sparsely stocked compared to its English equivalents, but by dint of diligent searching she was able to put together enough basics to see them through. The few vegetables that were bagge
d for sale were limp and expensive, but across the street was a market, where turbanned ladies sat on colourful cloths with their goods spread out before them. She locked the boxes of supplies into the back of the Land Rover and set off across the street, drawn by the bustle and colour. For a time she simply walked around, looking and listening, then she launched herself into the drama of bartering, armed to the teeth with her father's Irish blarney and her laughing, good-humoured eyes.
The market mamas responded loudly and cheerfully to this slip of a girl with the flashing smiles and the spirit to drive a good bargain, and they delegated an army of small children to carry her purchases back to her jeep. She gave them some coins, then headed back to the market and bought herself a long-handled woven basket, big enough to hold the few clothes she would need for a week. Let him complain about this, she thought grimly as she settled it on her shoulder and went back to the car.
Driving back to the hotel, a sign caught her eyes. 'The African Camping and Supplies Co'. She frowned. Was she responsible for hiring a tent, sleeping-bags, a stove? Was that included in 'stores'? Cal had been infuriatingly uninformative.
Yet when she got back she found that a large mound of bundles from the self-same shop had already been delivered to their room. She explored them, thinking hard, trying to project with her imagination what it would be like in the bush. Then she drove back to town and bought a powerful torch and spare batteries, and a first-aid kit.
It was late before she finally returned to the hotel that day. There was no one in the room, so she washed quickly and went down to the veranda. Cal was there, already halfway through dinner, but to her surprise he was not alone. She walked across to him and felt his dark eyes taking in her figure.
'Ah, Frankie!' He turned to his companions. 'There you are, gentlemen,' he said expansively. 'You ask me what I'm doing in Africa --' He left the sentence hanging. She looked at him in astonishment. He seemed to have been drinking, and his companions certainly had. They leered at her with glistening eyes.