An Image Of You
George touched her lips in an involuntary gesture as she remembered that kiss. There was no reason to believe that among the hundreds of women who passed before his camera lens he would remember her, but it might be a good idea to disguise herself a little. Nothing obvious, just enough to avoid jogging his memory. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t be taking that suede skirt with her.
Henry’s eyebrows rose slightly as she opened the door to his ring and George had the grace to laugh. ‘Don’t look like that, Henry,’ she begged.
‘You took me back a bit, miss. I thought for a moment I’d come to the wrong house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a suit before.’
‘And very uncomfortable it is too. If this is what is meant by turning over a new leaf, I shall be glad when it’s spring.’
Henry took her bags and led the way down to the car. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re away, shall I?’
‘Some of my friends are stopping there at the moment.’ She saw the doubt in his face. ‘They’re not as bad as they look, really. But I’ve left some things for Miss Bishop in the hall; I’d be glad if you’d pick them up tomorrow. Did Bishop ask you about a camera?’ she asked, changing the subject.
‘It’s in the boot. The receipts are in an envelope, for Customs.’
‘Jambo, memsahib. Anything to declare?’ George looked at the cheerful face, and gave herself a mental shake. She had slept the night away as the 747 had crossed Europe and half the length of Africa. She had missed a breathtaking sunrise over Sudan and left unopened the paperbacks she had bought at the airport. She had woken to steaming coffee and croissants, wishing heartily she had worn jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her now sadly crumpled suit.
The formalities of Customs took no time at all and soon George was being whisked towards Nairobi in a rackety Peugeot taxi decorated with red plush and gold fringes. She hardly had time for more than a glimpse of scrubby bush and distant hills before they were in the city, speeding along a dual carriageway lined with trees and parks, and punctuated by roundabouts dense with sculptured and exotic plant life.
On arrival at the Norfolk she was greeted by a vast Masai porter, six and a half feet if he was an inch.
‘ Jambo, memsahib. ’
‘Jambo,’ George replied, quickly getting her tongue around the universal greeting and received a brilliant smile in return.
The receptionist too was welcoming. ‘I’ve put you in one of the cottages, Miss Bainbridge, just through Reception, facing the garden. If you can fill in the registration form, please.’
‘Of course. Am I in time for some breakfast?’
The receptionist checked her watch. ‘Oh, yes. Another hour.’
‘Great. I’m starving.’ She signed the form and handed it to the girl.
‘Your bags have been taken to your cottage. It’s number three. Here’s the key.’
George picked up the bag from the desk and turned to go. Then, with a sudden tremor, she stopped.
The tall figure seemed to fill the doorway. Cool grey eyes swept the small reception area, impatiently dismissing the airline staff and American tourists eager to be off on safari. Lukas headed for the desk, totally oblivious of the head-turning ripple that marked his progress across the room.
George watched his progress with apprehension. She remembered only too well that arrogant, hackle-raising assurance that was making the prickles stir on the nape of her neck.
Ridiculously she wished she’d had time to make herself look a bit more presentable. Her hair was everywhere, and she cursed her stupid suit to perdition. At least he would never connect the seductively dressed girl he had placed over his knee with this crumpled mess. But she grabbed the plain tinted spectacles from her bag and placed them on her nose as an extra precaution.
‘I’m looking for George Bainbridge. He should have arrived this morning. Could you page him for me, please?’ The receptionist stared, then giggled.
Lukas had been polite enough, but now he drew straight brows into a frown. Speaking slowly and carefully, as if she were slow-witted, or could not speak English, he tried again.
‘I am Lukas. He is expecting me.’ The girl looked at George and collapsed into speechless giggles, hiding the broad whiteness of her smile behind long brown fingers. He turned to follow her gaze and George could no longer postpone the moment. She firmly squashed the butterflies that were beating a tattoo in her abdomen and stepped forward.
‘I think you must be looking for me, Mr Lukas. I am Georgette Bainbridge,’ she said coolly. She extended her hand with a confidence she was far from feeling and trusted that he would not notice the slight tremor that seemed, quite suddenly, to have invaded her entire body.
For a long moment he stared at her. She shifted uncomfortably under his hard, unbelieving gaze. ‘Everyone calls me George …’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly and she dropped her hand. He was obviously in no mood to take it.
His eyes travelled slowly from the toes of the plain black calf shoes, taking in the crumpled grey tailored suit and the white silk scarf that she had knotted so flippantly about her throat the night before, but which she was now aware looked merely rather sad. She had completed her transformation with a severe bun, from which wisps of hair were untidily escaping, and large tinted spectacles that were left over from the time she had suffered from an unsightly eye infection. The effect she had strived for was efficient and businesslike. But after sleeping in her clothes she looked anything but.
George was not unused to men weighing her up, assessing the possibilities, had seen Lukas do it himself. But he showed no such interest on this occasion. The curve of his mouth showed nothing but distaste and under his breath he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, ‘Oh, my dear God. What on earth have I done to deserve this?’
Stung, George was about to tell him. She opened her mouth, then remembered her father’s words: ‘Keep Mr Lukas happy and you’re forgiven.’ She wouldn’t allow this wretched man to ruin her plans. She swallowed and instead forced a smile to her lips and said a little breathlessly,
‘I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived. I was going to have breakfast. Will you join me, Mr Lukas?’
‘Not Mr. Just Lukas.’ His eyes, dark and intense under thick black brows, snapped with irritation. ‘If you must eat, we’d better get on with it.’
The receptionist, having recovered from her giggles, was watching them with open fascination. Lukas glared at her and she rapidly found something of great interest on the desk in front of her.
George, infuriated by this unpleasant greeting, forced herself to stay calm. ‘Well, I’m starving. Why don’t you go in and order for us both to save time, while I wash my hands.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Please don’t take too long, Georgette.’
George was quite firm. ‘Not Georgette. George.’ She picked up her bag and then couldn’t resist a coy little wave. ‘I won’t be long.’
Her reward for this performance was to hear his barely contained explosive, ‘God give me strength!’
Under the shower she veered between fury and amusement. Lukas clearly didn’t like his women plain and untidy. Well, she didn’t like him either. But for two weeks on location, photographing in Kenya, she would put up with a lot. And her father was right. He could teach her a great deal. So, while neither of them might like it, they were stuck with each other.
As she rifled through her bag, looking for something suitable to wear, she was almost sorry she had spent so much valuable time pressing her clothes. It would have been fun to change into something just as crumpled as her suit. She smiled wryly as she recalled that she had spent most of yesterday evening wishing she had taken more trouble with her wardrobe in recent months. Now her charity-shop bargains seemed to offer endless amusement. She slipped into a loose white T-shirt with a neck that had suffered somewhat in the wash. She had packed it to wear with her jeans, but they would be staying firmly at the bottom of her bag for the moment. Instead she pulled on a pair of well-worn green trousers that bagged at the knees, and she finished the look with an ancient pair of leather clogs that had once been expensive, but now were merely comfortable.
George surveyed herself in the mirror. Her deep gold hair was disguised in a neat if unbecoming bun. She teased a strand loose so that it would fall untidily with very little encouragement. Perfect. Her disguise seemed to take on a life of its own. Not quite grotesque. Just awful enough not to want to be seen with. Not, that was, if you were Mr Lukas.
Chapter Two
Lukas was sitting facing the doorway of the dining-room. He stared distractedly into space, his long fingers playing with a spoon and totally unaware of her presence. George paused in the opening and made a point of looking short-sightedly about her until she was sure she had attracted the attention of at least half of those present. As if suddenly aware that something demanded his attention, he looked up and saw her. It was a moot point whether he actually flinched, but George was not prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. She waved enthusiastically and sailed towards him, firmly repressing the urge to try a theatrical ‘trip’. There was a limit to what she might be expected to get away with.
‘That’s better.’ She grinned widely from behind her spectacles, keeping her amusement at the tight line of his mouth firmly under control. ‘Have you ordered for me?’
‘An English breakfast. You said you were hungry. You can help yourself to fruit or cereals from the buffet.’ He carelessly waved at the laden tables in the centre of the dining-room.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed as if she had only just noticed the lavish spread of tropical fruit. ‘But I don’t … That is …’ she stammered. ‘It’s all … rather strange to me,’ she ended, peering anxiously at him from behind the spectacles, wondering how she had ever managed without such a wonderful prop before. ‘Would you help me to choose?’
Lukas sat very still for a moment, and George could see the battle between his desire to strangle her and natural good manners pass briefly across his face. Good manners won, by a very short head.
‘Of course.’ He dropped his napkin beside his plate and rose to his feet. She had forgotten how tall he was, well over six feet, and dwarfing her own feeble five foot six. He certainly attracted a great deal of attention as he led her around the buffet, showing her the different tropical fruits and attempting to explain the taste of papaw, mangoes, guavas and tree melons. She exclaimed loudly at these treats, feigned indecision and revelled in his embarrassment. ‘Why don’t you just try everything?’ he said finally, allowing a hint of sarcasm to harden the edge of his voice.
‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ George exclaimed, and helped herself to the slice of papaw she had always intended to have.
Once he had settled her back in her seat, and served her with hot coffee, Lukas cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding, Miss Bainbridge—’
She interrupted. ‘George. All my friends call me George, Mr Lukas, and I am sure we’re going to be very good friends.’
He declined to comment on that possibility and resumed where he had left off. ‘I was expecting a man. When Miss Bishop telexed that I should expect George Bainbridge, I naturally assumed …’
George laughed loudly. ‘You’d be amazed how many people make that mistake, but nobody ever calls me Georgette. Daddy always wanted a son, you see. I’m afraid all he got were daughters. Henry, Max and me.’
Lukas made a brave effort to recover from this revelation. ‘The trouble is—er—George, it’s going to cause some difficulty with the accommodation. Michael Prior was sharing a tent with me. And we don’t have any spare room in with the girls.’
George choked on a piece of fruit and Lukas leapt up to beat on her back. Rather harder than necessary, she thought as she waved him away. ‘I’m all right. Really.’ Removing her glasses, she wiped her eyes, then sipped some coffee. She took a deep breath. ‘Did you say tent?’
For the first time since they had met Lukas looked happy. As he resumed his seat he actually smiled. ‘Yes. Two-man tents. Didn’t Miss Bishop mention that?’ He poured himself some more coffee. ‘We’re camped south of Nairobi, on the Athi River. Did you think we were shooting in Nairobi?’
George said nothing. She was speechless. She hadn’t had much time to think about the shoot itself. She had thought her only problem was Lukas. But her father had known nothing of that incident. He did know, however, that she hated camping. That she loathed insects of any description and, worst of all, she was terrified of the dark. Pa was certainly getting his pound of flesh out of her.
Two weeks of Lukas, to ensure a better life for some youngsters who needed her help, had seemed a small price to pay. Too small. She should have known her father better than that. He was challenging her at long distance. How badly did she believe in her refuge? She drew in a deep, steadying breath. Badly enough.
‘We may be able to get another tent from somewhere,’ Lukas went on doubtfully, a speculative look in his eye, at her sudden pallor. ‘Although we had the very devil of a job to get the ones we’re using. But if you won’t mind being on your own …’ Lukas helped himself to some toast, his appetite apparently restored. ‘I suppose as long as you don’t wander about at night you should be safe enough.’ She stared at him as he bit into the toast, exposing a row of even white teeth, then shuddered. ‘Do you normally wear glasses, George?’
‘Glasses?’ In her shock she had forgotten all about them. George ducked, quickly replacing her disguise. ‘Oh, yes. Always. I can’t do without them.’
Lukas shook his head. ‘Just for the moment I thought I had seen you somewhere before. The colour of your eyes is … unusual.’
‘Perhaps we’ve passed in my father’s office,’ she said quickly, making a determined effort to pull herself back into her role. ‘Although I’m sure I would have remembered,’ she gushed.
‘Your father’s office?’ She could almost hear the cogs working as he took in what she had said. ‘Charles is your father?’ He stared in disbelief. ‘Miss Bishop said in her telex to expect a young relative of Sir Charles … but then I knew he only had daughters …’
‘And you were expecting a man!’ She forced herself to laugh out loud at this wonderful joke.
She saw a sudden spark of hope light his dark eyes. ‘Well, Miss Bainbridge … sorry, George,’ he corrected himself, making a belated attempt at friendliness. ‘I realise that you can’t possibly be expected to share a tent with me. It would be most improper. Your father …’
George found herself unexpectedly offered a get-out. Lukas didn’t want her. He would rather have no assistant at all than this badly dressed, unattractive creature. Her skill was of no importance to him, she reflected bitterly.
She could go home and say, quite truthfully, that when Lukas had found out that it was a girl they had sent him he had said no, thank you. But she had the strongest feeling that she wouldn’t be believed. Who would believe such a ridiculous story? And Pa wouldn’t keep his promise to help with the refuge. Oh, no, Mr Lukas, she thought as she sipped her coffee. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. And she took comfort from the fact that her enforced presence on the shoot was as irritating for Lukas as it was for her.
Lukas had his hands on the table in front of him, his fingers laced together, his expression that of a man behaving with the utmost valour. George reached out and patted them kindly. Leaning forward, in a confidential tone she said, ‘Do you know the very last thing Pa said to me yesterday? He said, “George, keep Mr Lukas happy.” So don’t you worry yourself a bit. It will be a relief to share a tent with you. I shall feel completely safe.’ And that too was the truth, she thought grimly, firmly suppressing a shiver at the thought of being alone in a tent in the bush. Anything would be better than that. And she was sure that she would be perfectly safe from any unwanted attentions. There seemed little likelihood of Lukas making a pass at her. ‘Oh, look. Here’s breakfast.’ She gazed at a plate piled high with more than she normally ate in a week for breakfast. ‘Yummy,’ she said, hoping the dismay she felt was not evident in her voice.
Lukas had obviously decided against a cooked breakfast. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, giving George a chance to study his face as she nibbled a slice of bacon. In repose he looked younger, less dangerous. And his eyelashes were scandalously long. It was a pity he wasted so much time on pointless work: calendars, pin-up girls, beauty competitions. A photographer with his talent and reputation could do a great deal of good with his camera.
‘When you’ve finished we’ll get off.’ He hadn’t opened his eyes and he made her jump. She wondered uneasily if he had been aware of her appraisal.
‘So soon? I would have liked to see a little of Nairobi.’
‘I’m not in the guided-tour business and this isn’t a holiday, Miss … George. If you’re going to be my assistant you had better accept that right now.’ He had stopped being polite, lifting heavy lids slightly to see the effect his words were having on her. ‘Preferably without having to be told twice.’
He had apparently decided that he was stuck with her. But he didn’t like it. And she was ridiculously glad he didn’t like it. But she kept her smile inside. She abandoned her effort to eat another sausage.
‘I’ll get my bags, then.’ He stood up and she waited for him to offer to collect them for her. He didn’t.
‘I’ll be waiting in the jeep. Don’t be long.’
‘No. At least I don’t suppose it will take long to phone home, will it? I did promise Pa I would let him know I had arrived safely.’ Some devil was driving her to annoy him, and she was unable to resist this last gibe.
Lukas placed his hands on the table and leaned across at her, his face very close to hers. She had time to notice that his eyes were grey, flecked curiously with blue, and they were surrounded by small white lines from being screwed up against the sun. It seemed unlikely that they were laughter-lines. A small muscle worked in his jaw.
‘Miss Bainbridge,’ he said heavily, ‘I have wasted enough time today coming to Nairobi to fetch you. I’m going straight back. And if you are going to work for me, so are you. If your father wants to know that you arrived safely he will have to telephone the airline.’
George knew that she had gone too far. She wanted Lukas embarrassed, she wanted him unhappy. Angry she could do without.
‘I’m …’ But he was in full flow and not about to be stopped.
‘When I am working on location I work twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. And when I work, everybody works.’ He let his words sink in. Then he continued with obvious relish, ‘As my assistant you will be at my beck and call every moment of your waking life—and your sleeping one if I decide I need you in the night. So perhaps you had better decide where your priorities lie right now. I haven’t the time to run back and forth to Nairobi so that you can telephone your father.’ He stood up. ‘I thought the man had more sense …’ he muttered.
She fumed inwardly. ‘It’s just as well we’ll be sharing a tent, then,’ she replied sharply. ‘I can ask your permission when I need to use the lavatory.’
His eyes narrowed and, realising that she had let her disguise slip, she giggled and hiccuped. ‘But I’d better not tell Pa. He might not understand.’
Like a drowning man, he clutched at the offered straw. ‘You’re right. He might not. Look, why don’t you just stay in Nairobi for a few days? Have a look around. There’s a lot to see. Just enjoy yourself. No one will blame you; it’s well known that I’ve a short fuse. You could just say I was impossible to work for. There are plenty of people who would believe you.’ He sounded genuinely sympathetic. He almost smiled. ‘You can see how difficult it’s going to be. That’s the reason I prefer a male assistant. It will be very rough going, you know.’
Cruelly she snatched this straw from his grasp. ‘Now, Mr Lukas …’
‘Lukas, just Lukas!’ he appealed.
‘Oh, yes. Like “just George”.’ She giggled, again. ‘Now Lukas, you remember what I said. Pa said I was to keep you happy. And keep you happy I will. However will you manage if you don’t have someone to hold your light meter? I’ll just go and get my bags, and then we can be off.’
‘Hold my light meter …?’ For a moment she thought he was going to explode. Instead he straightened and with a shrug said, ‘I’ll meet you out front.’
And he was waiting impatiently behind the wheel when she returned. She threw her bags into the back and jumped up beside him. He stared in horror at the floppy hat she had added to her outfit with what, modesty thrown to the four winds, she believed to be a touch of genius. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again in a hard line.
‘Well? What are we waiting for?’ she asked with a happy smile. ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’
He made no reply, started the jeep and executed a vicious U-turn before skidding away from the Norfolk Hotel.
They had travelled several miles before he spoke. ‘That is a terrible hat.’
George touched the offending headgear. ‘Oh. Do you think so? It’s just to keep the sun off. This is hardly Ascot, is it?’
He gave her a sideways glance, taking in her motley attire, and grinned. ‘Hardly. And I certainly wouldn’t want you to get sunstroke. At least the other girls won’t feel threatened.’
‘Girls?’ she repeated, refusing to get angry over his careless personal remark. After all, she told herself, she didn’t care what he thought of her.
‘They’re highly strung creatures. They don’t like competition from non-professionals.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What girls?’
Lukas stared at her. ‘The models. There are three of them. Kelly, Amber and Peach.’ He sighed. ‘For the calendar. Your father’s calendar.’
‘Calendar.’ She breathed the word. It wasn’t a question, because she knew now the full extent of her father’s punishment. And half an hour ago she could have escaped. But not now. Now she was headed towards some unknown camp with Lukas. She had a few traveller’s cheques, but no return air ticket, no way of getting home without throwing herself upon her father’s mercy. And that she was not about to do. She was trapped and she would have to make the most of it.
‘Yes, calendar. Didn’t your father tell you?’
She shook her head. ‘He was having a little joke with me. He has quite a sense of humour.’
Lukas glanced at her and almost smiled. ‘Yes, I’d agree with that. So, tell me what you know about photography. What you’ve done.’ He added, a little grimly, ‘If anything.’
She didn’t answer immediately, couldn’t trust herself to, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hand to stop herself saying exactly what she thought. Lukas, it seemed, was in no hurry; his expression was unreadable as he waited for her to collect her thoughts. She sat desperately trying to think of something clever to say as Nairobi dipped below the skyline behind them and they began to drive eastwards across the empty plain.
For a while she had been enjoying the little game she was playing, but suddenly it wasn’t a game. She stared out at the wide horizons, looking for inspiration. The hills over to the right were hazy blue, and the plain rolled away from them. It was vast, beautiful.
George gave herself a mental shake. What on earth was she complaining about? Perhaps being a colourless doormat under the feet of Lukas for two weeks was more than flesh and blood would be able to sustain. But she would certainly try. And she might as well get some amusement from it.