by Kim Lawrence
‘You play opposite Sam Rourke?’
Hope nodded. ‘I introduced Lindy to him, so if anything goes wrong in Eden they’ll blame me, no doubt. Come on, let’s get some champagne before it’s all gone.’ She touched his arm lightly and he followed her into the kitchen.
‘Hope, dear, there you are.’ Beth Lacey, her hands deep in a sink of soapy water, smiled at her daughter. ‘Hello, Alex. I hope you’re having a good time?’
‘I’m being well looked after.’
‘Do you mind washing a few glasses for me, Hope? We had a major breakage. I should really remind Lindy she ought to be getting changed.’
‘Sure, off you go, Mum.’
Hope tied an incongruous striped apron over her bridesmaid dress. ‘The spare bubbly’s in the dairy,’ she told Alex. ‘Third door along,’ she added, inclining her head towards the passageway behind him. She immersed her hands in the water and gave a sigh. ‘Why is it your nose always itches when you haven’t got a spare hand?’ she complained.
‘Let me,’ he offered. Before Hope realised what he was about to do Alex leant over and rubbed the tip of her straight nose, which fell somewhere in between the cute and aquiline categories. ‘Better?’
Hope gave a hoarse grunt of assent. I’m staring so hard I’m probably cross-eyed, she decided ruefully. He smells awfully good…she appreciatively breathed in the spicy, faintly lemony scent of his cologne mingled with the musky, masculine odour of his warm body. If she could distil what this man did to her quivering stomach muscles, she’d be a very rich alchemist. Yes, alchemy had the right ring to it. There was certainly something mystically marvellous about the way she was feeling. Come clean, Hope, she reprimanded herself. Earthy and raw was much closer to the truth!
His hand dropped away, but not completely. His thumb ran slowly across the cushiony softness of her slightly parted lips. ‘You’re no plastic clone.’
This peculiar comment enabled Hope to pull free from the strangely hypnotic haze that made her loath to withdraw from the light contact.
‘Is that your idea of a compliment?’ His hand still hadn’t fallen away completely; now the palm of his hand rested ever so lightly against the curve of her jaw. ‘Because if so…’
‘You know what I mean—the sort of blond bimbo-types that they churn out, all teeth and silicone.’
Hope gave a shout of laughter. ‘That’s a bad case of stereotypes you’ve got there. There’s room at the top for variety and individuality. In fact, I think both are essential.’ She flicked soapsuds at him.
Her action seemed to startle him. Perhaps Alex Matheson wasn’t the sort of man people laughed at or teased? He met the humour shining in her blue eyes and his immense shoulders visibly relaxed.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about acting or modelling.’
‘You just know what you like?’ she suggested, tongue firmly in her cheek.
‘And what I don’t like. To tell you the honest truth, the idea of silicone…bits gives me the creeps,’ he confessed. This sent Hope into a fresh spate of giggles.
‘You’re so…so quaint,’ she gasped, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.
Alex paused in the act of mopping the soapy suds from his sleek hair and gaped at her. ‘Quaint?’ he repeated in a strange tone.
‘In the nicest possible way,’ she assured him kindly.
‘I’m relieved.’
‘Actually, for models, too much up top can be a nuisance,’ she confided. ‘Clothes hang better on an androgynous frame.’
‘You’re not androgynous.’ His eyes dwelt fleetingly on the ample proof of this statement.
‘I’m not the waif type,’ she agreed. ‘I’m meant to be the athletic, wholesome, sexy type,’ she explained, very matter-of-factly.
‘And are you?’
‘I play a mean game of tennis,’ she replied selectively.
Her caution brought a grin to his face, making him appear younger and less severe. He really ought to grin more often, she decided appreciatively. ‘Perhaps we could play some time?’
Hope could field sexual innuendo with the best of them, but to her amazement she felt the colour creep inexorably up her neck until her face was aflame.
‘I expect you like to win?’
Alex withdrew his fascinated gaze from her crimson cheeks with difficulty. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ Her veneer of sophistication was much thinner than he’d imagined.
‘I don’t possess the killer instinct.’
‘You think I do?’
Hope placed the last glass on the draining board and shook the moisture off her hands. ‘If I say yes, you’ll accuse me of stereotyping you as the hard-nosed businessman—ruthless and incapable of compassion.’ As she spoke it struck her forcibly how very easily he could be slotted into that category. It wasn’t just that he was physically formidable; the stamp of authority went gene-deep in him. He was a man accustomed to making what he wanted to happen occur.
He saw the flicker of uncertainty cross her face. ‘I draw the line at homicide.’
‘That’s a comfort.’
‘It would seem I’m woefully uneducated about your life.’
‘Don’t worry, I don’t know much about building cars.’
‘We could exchange information and improve our general knowledge,’ he suggested silkily.
‘Are we talking a date?’ A cautious smile trembled on her lips. It was scary how much his reply meant to her.
‘Tryst, assignation, rendezvous…’ She was mature for her age, and there was nothing artificial about this girl—woman, he firmly corrected himself. The need to justify his response was strong.
‘I’d like that.’ She sounded cool and collected, having firmly quashed the inclination to jump on the table and dance.
‘Good.’ The gleam of ruthlessness in his grey eyes, the one that bothered her, was back. ‘Where did you say the champagne was?’
‘How did it go, Hope?’ Charlie managed to get a quiet moment alone with his daughter once the guests had begun to disperse.
‘Better than I expected.’
‘You’ll be yesterday’s news before long,’ he comforted her.
Hope nodded. She’d managed to be philosophical about the gossip that followed in her wake at the moment.
The whole world thought she was having an affair with Lloyd Elliot, the producer of the film she’d just starred in. She’d read countless articles about how she’d heartlessly broken up his marriage. Her motivation, so said the general consensus, had been to further her career. Lloyd’s estranged wife, the tempestuous singer Dallas, had given some very moving ‘brave victim’ interviews. If Hope hadn’t known she and Lloyd had been living separate lives for years, she’d have been touched herself!
When Hope had agreed to divert public attention from the real new love of Lloyd’s life, she hadn’t realised just how much that decision was going to affect her and her family. It was too late to wonder, with hindsight, whether her decision might have been different if she had known. But her family knew the truth, and before long, when Lloyd went public about the real object of his affections, so would everyone else.
‘It’ll be a relief,’ she admitted to her father. ‘You certainly get to know who your real friends are. And today wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be, unless I’m getting over the paranoia.’
‘It seemed you were making a new friend.’
‘Someone doesn’t miss much,’ Hope responded drily; the casual tone didn’t fool her for a second.
‘Your mother did happen to mention that you had Alex Matheson in tow.’
‘I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that. He’s an interesting man.’
‘Not an easy man to get to know, though—aloof… He’s never really gotten involved in village life. I’ve known him since he was a boy, and he always supports local charities and fund-raisers very generously, but…’ He frowned, trying to put into words his doubts about Alex Matheson. Women were strange creatures, they probably found the
fact the man was something of an enigma attractive.
Hope was torn between irritation and exasperated affection. Sometimes her parents forgot how long she’d been out in the big bad world.
‘So, he’s a private person. At least he didn’t treat me like some sort of scarlet woman! There’s no need to look so worried, Dad. I’m not about to do anything stupid.’ Am I? she silently asked herself. Wasn’t there something very appealing about doing something very stupid with Alex Matheson?
Charlie Lacey enfolded his daughter in a bear-like hug. ‘I know you’re a sensible girl,’ he said gruffly.
Am I? Hope wondered, recalling with a shiver the smouldering expression in Alex’s eyes as he’d left.
CHAPTER TWO
THE curls that had escaped the fat plait Hope had tied her hair in were tugged this way and that in the gusting winds. Her light waterproof jacket cut out the worst of it, but her nose felt distinctly pink as she strode sure-footedly over the hillside.
Bishop’s Crag was a well-known landmark; it was the highest point for several miles around. She knew the spot well, but it had been years since she’d been here. She paused to get her breath and inhaled deeply. She’d forgotten how beautiful her home county was. She was surprised to see a light dusting of early snow on this high ground.
Alex Matheson was different; she had to give him that! No romantic candlelight to sweep a girl off her feet for him. Possibly this was some sort of endurance test he put all his prospective girlfriends through. The thought made her grin. Then a shaft of shock swept through her as she recognised the direction her thoughts had been taking her.
She didn’t have boyfriends. At least she hadn’t in a long time. There had been the brief, intense involvement with Hugh Gilmour, her first agent, but that had been short-lived. Since then she hadn’t felt the need, or desire, to become involved with any man. She’d made a few good friends within the industry, and some of them were men, but she’d never felt inclined to push friendship farther.
‘Boyfriend.’ The wind tugged the word from her lips. No, she shook her head, there was nothing vaguely boyish about Alex; he was all man.
She was about to continue when a flicker of movement on the periphery of her vision caught her attention. To her left, on higher ground, just below a clump of trees, their skeletal winter frames permanently bent by the constant buffeting of high winds, he stood—a solitary figure who would never be bent by any storm.
She automatically followed the skyward direction of his stare. A dark dot appeared to fall quite literally from the sky before wheeling at an impossible angle and skimming the ground. It landed on Alex’s outstretched arm.
Awed by this primal display of aerobatics, Hope waved to the solitary figure. He didn’t respond, but she put this down to the fact he was handling the bird on his wrist.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you had a hawk?’ she panted as she finally reached his side. Hope’s cheeks were glowing from her exertion. Her fascinated eyes touched the bird on his gauntleted hand before she smiled at the man.
‘She’s a falcon.’ There had been more warmth in the beady, unblinking stare of the bird of prey.
She didn’t need to be psychic to experience a premonition of dread. The wind ruffled and tugged at his thick hair, but his face was as hard as the rock he was balanced upon. He looked as much at home in the bleak landscape as his bird. He extended his arm and the creature took flight.
‘Aren’t you afraid she won’t come back?’
‘She occasionally absconds, but she always comes back to me.’ With a minute alteration of his features he managed to imply that the concept of such faithfulness was beyond Hope’s grasp.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ All those romantic scenarios she’d built up in her head were disintegrating under the ruthless glare of reality. It was ironic that she’d smiled stoically through the mud-slinging of the past few weeks and now all this man had to do was flare a nostril and she felt her blood pressure rising and her heart bleeding!
‘Why should anything be wrong, Hope?’
His sarcastic drawl made her feel helpless and angry. The last dregs of her bubbling anticipation drained away under the cold glare of his eyes.
‘That’s what I’d like to know. And will you get down off that damned crag? It’s impossible to talk to someone who’s looming over me,’ she responded, exasperated and dismayed by his peculiar attitude. Could this be the same man she had spoken to yesterday? ‘If you’re having second thoughts, fine—but is there any need to freeze me out?’
Looking at her glowing, apparently innocent face brought a sneer to his lips. He jumped down from the rocky crag with one lithe movement.
This display of agility in such a big man took Hope by surprise. If she’d imagined he would be less intimidating at eye level she soon discovered her mistake—controlled fury was the only way to describe the expression on his face. Her bewilderment and confusion were snowballing.
Over his shoulder she saw the falcon drop onto a small bird, probably a pigeon. Her imagination conjured up cruel talons tearing into the fragile frame of its prey. She shuddered. They made a good pair, man and bird. If he’d had talons she could readily imagine him sinking them into her.
‘Why did you ask me if I was married?’
‘Because I don’t…’ Her voice suddenly trailed off. Things slipped unpleasantly into place. ‘You hadn’t read any of the articles about—’
‘About you and your married lover. A fact you took full advantage of,’ he observed derisively. ‘I did tell you I’d been out of the country.’
‘That’s me—never let an opportunity to snare a poor, defenceless male pass me by. Of course, it would have been more satisfying if you’d had a wife and ten children.’ She spat the words from between clenched teeth.
To think I was impressed he hadn’t been influenced by the scurrilous tales! To think I thought he was warm and interesting! The fact that he was still the most virile male she’d ever met only intensified her disappointment. ‘An invalid mother would have been icing on the cake.’ Flippancy covered the pain of having her eyes opened to his true personality.
‘I can’t abide fakes,’ he responded in an austere manner that made her temper climb to new heights.
‘I can’t abide sanctimonious bores!’
‘Your family must have been going through hell.’
‘Thanks to nasty-minded creeps like you, they probably still are!’
‘Don’t try to transfer the guilt you feel to me, Hope. I suppose it’s something that you’re still capable of feeling guilt…’
‘And still capable of wrapping a sucker like you around my little finger.’ She’d hit the nail right on the head there; she could see it from the flash of rage in his eyes. That was all his outrage was about: he didn’t like the idea his judgement could be flawed. The great Alex Matheson didn’t get taken for a ride by anyone!
‘I’m sure you’ve had a great deal of practice; you’re very professional.’
She gasped, as if the slow, deliberate drawl had been a blow. The sound of her open palm as it struck the side of his face was like a whip-crack. ‘Oh, God, look what you made me do!’ She barely had time to shriek the words before the bird streaked past her face. Alex knocked her to the ground and the creature sped away.
He squatted beside her as she raised her head and groaned. ‘It’s only a superficial scratch. You were lucky.’
Her fingers curled in the mossy soil. ‘Break out the champagne to celebrate,’ she croaked. She gave a whimper and her head dropped once more. A sheen of cold perspiration covered her pale skin and beaded along her upper lip. She battled to overcome the waves of nausea.
‘There won’t be a scar.’ She flinched back as he touched the side of her cheek. ‘It barely broke the skin.’
‘It’s not that.’ She took several deep breaths and prayed she wouldn’t disgrace herself totally. ‘I’m going to throw up and it’s all your fault.’ This was always the afterma
th of a brief flash of blind rage, this humiliating physical helplessness.
At least he had the sense to give her some privacy. As creeps went, he was fairly sensitive. A few minutes later she got to her feet and climbed the rocky outcrop he was sitting upon.
‘Are you pregnant?’ That made her lose her footing. Arms windmilling wildly, she managed not to fall, though that could hardly be more humiliating than losing her breakfast in front of him.
‘I’d hardly be blaming you if I was, would I?’ she responded, choosing a flattish piece of ground to sit upon, not too close to him. She felt the slight welt where the bird’s claws had grazed her face. She took out a tissue and spat on it. ‘Didn’t I read somewhere that saliva’s antiseptic?’ she wondered out loud. She dabbed the material to her face, blotting the small droplets of blood.
‘She thought you were attacking me. She’s very sensitive.’
And I’m a block of wood! God, he’s priceless! ‘I was, and no matter what anyone tells you my temper has been wildly exaggerated.’ She couldn’t help the hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice. The family joke about her left hook had worn pretty thin years ago, and she’d worked really hard to control her more instinctual responses. It wasn’t as if she liked losing her temper; it made her sick—physically sick afterwards. She was still shaking with reaction.
‘Under the circumstances I’m not going to disagree with you. I’d like to keep my other cheek intact.’
‘I’ve never hit anyone smaller than me.’
‘That must certainly reduce your field.’
‘That’s a cheap crack. I thought you had more class.’
‘And you’d know all about class, I suppose?’ He moved closer in time to see the flash of anger in her eyes. The absence of colour in her cheeks emphasised the brilliance of their blue. If he’d wanted to he could have counted the number of freckles that were scattered over the bridge of her nose. Make-up on a face like hers really would be a case of gilding the lily. ‘And if you’re thinking of taking another swing at me, I warn you I’m not into meek acceptance.’