Prisoner Of The Heart

The man behind the mask…

Sophie Nash always knew that trespassing on elusive celebrity Chay Buchanan’s Mediterranean island hideaway would be risky—and that’s before she’s caught red-handed, risking her life to take a photo of him! Even more worrying is her instant attraction to the gorgeous man in front of her…

Chay values privacy above all else, so when an accident requires that the delightfully bubbly Sophie must share his island sanctuary a little longer, he’s totally thrown. And that’s before he kisses her…!

“Please let me go, Chay.”

Sophie whispered the plea, her eyes huge.

“Don’t do that!” Chay lifted his hand to her heated cheek, to graze it with his thumb. “Or I’ll have to kiss you again...until you beg me to let you stay.”

“You’ve got a great notion of your physical attraction,” she declared roundly.

“Have I? Are you confident enough of your willpower to put it to the test?”

LIZ FIELDING was born in Berkshire, England, and educated at a convent school in Maidenhead. At twenty she took off for Africa to work as a secretary in Lusaka, where she met her civil engineer husband, John. They spent the following ten years working in Africa and the Middle East. She began writing during the long evenings when her husband was working away on contract. Liz and her husband are now settled in Wales with their children, Amy and William.

Prisoner of the Heart

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

“Please let me go, Chay.”

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘GOT you, Chay Buchanan!’ Sophie Nash’s triumphant exclamation was a tightly contained whisper. Perched on a rocky ledge fifty feet above a rock-strewn bay, she had waited too long–all an apparently endless afternoon, while the sun had crept around the headland, stealing her shade, beating into the exposed crevice with barely enough room to ease her aching back or flex her legs–to risk giving herself away now.

And she had almost given up. The sun was sinking fast, taking with it the precious light. Another ten minutes, she had promised herself, and she would end the torture and climb the fifteen or so feet back up to the top of the cliff. She had pressed herself a little closer to the comfort of the rock-face. The ledge had seemed larger viewed from the safety of the cliff-top and she had been so certain that she would be able to see the wide expanse of terrace between the tower and the sea. But she had been wrong. Only the tantalising glimpse of the pool had kept her riveted to her eyrie, praying that the sudden rise in temperature would tempt her quarry out for a swim. And finally it had.

The man fixed in her sights was staring out to sea, his hand raised against the westering sun. She released the shutter and the motor-wind drove the film forward as the wind whipped up a dark lock of hair and feathered it across his forehead. He was relaxed now, at ease in the safety of his keep. All that would change if he discovered that he was being observed. She shivered involuntarily, despite the heat. He had made himself more than clear. Warned her to stay away. Warned her that if she was ever unfortunate enough to be found anywhere near the old watch-tower that was his home with a camera in her possession she would discover that the dungeon was still a working feature.

Sophie shrugged away the disquieting thought of being locked inside the dark recesses of his tower. He had been simply melodramatic, trying to scare her off. Well, he would find out that she didn’t scare off that easily. His dungeon was undoubtedly nothing more threatening than a wine cellar these days. Besides, she wasn’t trespassing. There wasn’t a thing he could do to her. Oh, no? The thought was in her head before she could stop it. No! His property began on the other side of the great overhanging rock that so effectively protected his privacy. All but the pool at the sea’s edge. And he would never know she had been there until the photographs appeared alongside Nigel’s feature in Celebrity.

She twisted the zoom lens, closing in on the tanned profile and a pair of well-made shoulders, naked but for the towel thrown about them. The skin of his back gleamed like bronze silk in the early evening sun, smooth, packed with muscle, like an ancient statue of an athlete she had seen once in a museum. Her mouth dried as she panned the lense downwards, but the briefest black swimsuit clung to his hips, and the smallest gasp of something that might have been relief escaped her lips.

She quickly swung the long lens back up to his face, almost jumping as she adjusted the focus and he suddenly appeared close enough to touch. That first sense of triumph evaporated as she acknowledged that her response to such compelling masculinity, even at this distance, was as immediate and disturbing as on their first encounter. She felt a hot, remembering flush of shame at the way his knowing eyes had declined the imagined invitation.

He wasn’t even handsome, Sophie thought furiously. Chay Buchanan possessed no feature that might lay claim to such an adjective. His face was rugged, lived-in. No, slept-in. She shifted, uncomfortable with the memory of the naive way she had knocked at the door of his fortress to ask if he would let her take a photograph of him. She should have known that it couldn’t possibly be that simple or Nigel would never have asked her... Her foot disturbed a small shower of stones and in a sudden panic, sure that the whole world must hear, she flattened herself against the cliff and held her breath as they rattled down to the sea.

But there was no shout of rage and finally she braved a peek over the ledge. He hadn’t moved, his fierce profile fixed upon a distant yacht, sails straining against the wind as it cut through the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean.

Turn, she willed the man. Look this way. If he would just turn towards her, every painful, cramping moment on the ledge would be worthwhile. And turn he did, as if her mind had somehow reached out and touched his.

She took a deep, steadying breath as the lens was filled with that unforgettable face. Dark brows jutted fiercely over the sea-green eyes that this morning had seemed to bore into her to search out her secrets, and she had to remind herself very firmly that he had no idea that she had found a chink in his armour and was at this very moment intruding on his seclusion. If he had, he certainly wouldn’t be standing relaxed and at ease at the edge of his pool.

Chay Buchanan had made it only too plain that trespassers were not welcome, and she wondered briefly if his nose had been broken defending that privacy. The most recent library photographs of the man had been more than six years old. He had been standing grim-faced at his brother’s graveside, and in that shot his nose had been arrow-straight.

It had been set without much thought as to the aesthetics of the matter, and with his sun-darkened skin it gave him the hawkish look of a corsair. Just the kind of man to keep his enemies in a dungeon, Sophie thought uncomfortably. His mouth was wide and might be pleasing when he smiled. She wouldn’t know. When she had seen it last it had been little more than a thin angry slash over an uncompromising chin. She released the shutter and claimed the image for her own.

He pulled the towel from around his neck, and dropped it on the rocks at his feet. Her finger hovered over the shutter release, capturing the moment of sheer power and grace as his body unwound and he dived into the water of a pool carved out of the rocks, fed and cleaned by a narrow channel from the sea.

With a series of workmanlike pictures of the reclusive writer safely on film, Sophie leaned back against the rock to catch her breath. A slight frown creased her brow as she watched the man carving his way through the water.

Chay Buchanan had once strutted the literary stage like a young lion, the darling of the media. But it was years since he had appeared on every prestigious arts programme as the literary find of the century. Years since his last book had done the almost impossible feat of flying to the top of the bestseller lists in London and New York before capturing one of the greatest literary prizes on offer.

Since then, nothing. No more books to win prestigious prizes and fly to the top of the bestseller lists. No more photographs of him accompanied by beautiful women to fill the gossip pages. He had simply disappeared.

According to Nigel, he had turned his back on the world, sold his London home and retreated to this island fastness. With an up-to-date photograph it would make a good feature. Long on speculation, short on facts. He was an ideal target for the kind of magazine that lived off scandal and well-known faces.

Sophie’s fingers tightened around the cassette of film as she anticipated what would be done with her photographs. After this morning she had no reason to feel anything but antipathy for the man yet, slightly sickened by what she had done, she had to resist a sudden urge to fling the thing into the sea. She hated magazines like Celebrity. Sophie eased her shoulders, pushed back a wayward strand of fair hair that had escaped her plait to cling clammily to her forehead and watched her quarry, now slicing relentlessly through the water.

She stared down at the cassette, then, before she could do anything so utterly stupid, she dropped it into the button-down pocket of her shirt. She had no choice, she reminded herself. If Chay Buchanan had nothing to hide then Nigel couldn’t hurt him. And she very firmly shut out the insistent voice that told her she was fooling herself.

Automatically she reloaded the camera with film, her eyes straying once more to the powerful figure of Chay Buchanan. But he had stopped the apparently effortless crawl and was lying on his back in the water, looking back towards the tower. Sophie watched, almost mesmerised by the beauty of his body glistening through the sheen of water as it rose and fell against the restless sea surging through the narrow gap in the rock. A tiny crease furrowed her forehead as she frowned, wondering what he was doing. Then, with a jolt, she knew, almost froze, as a buzz of excitement rippled her skin to gooseflesh. He was watching someone. There was someone else on the terrace.

She flattened herself as close to the edge of her rocky perch as she dared and strained to see. Who was it? A woman? Please, please, she begged the kindly Fates, let it be a woman. Someone famous. A well-known actress. A model. Something sensational enough to make up for not getting inside the tower, something that would please Nigel enough to hand over that precious envelope... And if it was somebody else’s wife? Her conscience jabbed at her. She pushed the thought to one side. This was not the moment to dwell on moral dilemmas. She would worry about that later. Right now, if she didn’t keep her head, there would be no photographs.

She hung over the edge a little, blotting out the dizzying drop to the sea in her effort to gain a few extra inches of terrace, but the great overhang of rock that protected the tower from prying eyes was still obstructing her view. Chay Buchanan raised his arms in encouragement to his unseen companion and a flash of white teeth confirmed that he was laughing. And she had been right about his mouth. Long seconds passed before she remembered her task and captured the moment on film.

A sudden movement galvanised her into action, but the body that leapt into those inviting arms was no famous beauty. It was a child. A dark-haired, straight-limbed boy, five or maybe six years old, and as at home in the water as his father. For a moment surprise held her transfixed. There could be no mistake in the relationship, the likeness was too marked. But Nigel had said nothing about a child. Or a wife. And Chay Buchanan certainly hadn’t had the look of a married man.

She shook away the thought and the film ripped through the spool as she kept her finger on the release. With almost trembling fingers she dropped the used film into her bag and fed in another. There was barely enough light now for long-range photography. The sun was dipping relentlessly towards the sea, but still she carried on, her eye glued to the camera and the two figures framed in the viewfinder. Then she saw the boy pointing towards the cliff. Towards her.

Chay Buchanan’s eyes creased as he scoured the cliff, and the mouth once again became that angry slash as the lowering sun gleamed against the hooded lens, betraying her. For a particle of a second their eyes clashed as the distance that separated them shrank to nothing.

There was no hurry, she told her trembling fingers as she flipped the film from the camera. By the time he was dry and dressed and halfway to the cliff-top, where her car was hidden from casual view, she would be gone. There was plenty of time. She repeated the words over and over in her head like a mantra. Just a short, easy climb and she was away. But her hands trembled a little as she hurriedly pushed her camera into the soft cocoon in her carrying bag. She slung it over her shoulder, glanced up at the route she had to take and reached for the first handhold.

It was unexpectedly difficult. Hours of being cramped, unable to stretch properly, had left her stupidly weak, and her legs began to tremble as she forced them to push her upwards, and her hands slipped sweatily on the suddenly elusive handholds as she thought of Chay Buchanan hurrying to intercept her. She was forced to stop, draw deep breaths into her lungs, remind herself that it was easy. She hadn’t been about to kill herself over a few photographs. If it had been dangerous she would never have risked it.

Not even for Jennie? The thought of her sister lent her fresh strength. She had seen the way clearly down to the ledge. Now it was simply a matter of keeping her head, forgetting the drop below her and climbing back up to the cliff path before Chay Buchanan got there. The thought of meeting him again urged her on.

She clenched her teeth as the pain burned in her forearms. And with every agonising inch up the cliff-face she cursed Chay Buchanan. All she wanted was one photograph, a simple portrait to illustrate Nigel’s article. And she had asked politely. If he hadn’t been so damned rude she might have taken his refusal. It wasn’t her way to sneak around corners, taking pictures of people who would rather be left alone. But a stab of guilt seared her cheeks as she recalled the extraordinary thrill of triumph when she had had the man in her sights.

Her fingertips reached upwards; she was desperate now for the ledge. Surely she was nearly there? But fifteen feet suddenly seemed more like fifty as there was just more rock to tear at her nails and scrape the skin from her fingers. Going down, it had all seemed so simple. Plenty of footholds. No more daunting than the bank in the local park where she and Jennie had played as children. The difference being that when she had slipped in the park there hadn’t been a vertiginous drop down a sea-lashed cliff. Stop it! she warned her imagination. If she fell she would crash back on to the ledge. Nasty, painfut–that was all. All? And if she hit her head? Rolled off?

Panic made her glance up, and her shift in weight almost undid her. She threw herself back at the rock-face, closing her eyes to shut out the dizzy spinning, and for the first time felt real fear cold-feather her spine. She clung on, wondering just how long she could stay there before the pain in her arms and the trembling weakness in her legs became too much and she simply fell.

‘Can I offer you a hand, Sophie Nash?’

Her whole body lurched with shock at the harsh invitation. Taking great care not to overbalance, she glanced up once more, to find herself being regarded by a pair of fathomless eyes. He had flattened himself against the ground and stretched a hand down towards her. So close? She had been that close? She felt like weeping with frustration. But pride kept the tears at bay. Instead she glared at the strong, square hand and quite deliberately ignored the proferred lifeline. ‘I can manage,’ she ground out, and, as if to demonstrate this, grabbed the nearest rocky protrusion to ease herself up another few inches.

‘I really think you should take my hand,’ he advised coldly. ‘I won’t drop you, despite the undoubted provocation.’

But this small triumph had given her new heart. Adrenalin surging through her veins, she made another foot of height before she was forced once more to stop. She pressed her cheek against the rapidly cooling rock and tried to ease the strain on her limbs and drag air into her lungs through her parched throat. She hadn’t known it was possible to hurt so much.

‘Don’t be stubborn, Sophie.’ His voice was urgent now. ‘You’re not going to make it without help.’

His hawkish face was nearer, the lines carved deep into his cheeks, and he reached for her. ‘Leave me alone,’ she gasped, but the words were little more than a croak.

‘Fine words. Remember them,’ he ordered, ‘if you live long enough.’

‘I can manage!’ she repeated, the words turning into a scream when her foot slipped and her forehead collided sharply against the rock as she scrabbled with her toe for a hold to halt the sickening slip. She was jerked to an agonised halt as Chay Buchanan’s hands grasped her wrist and he hauled her over the edge, grabbing her in a vice-like grip as he rolled away from the yawning chasm.

‘You’ve dislocated my arm!’ she complained bitterly, as the pain of torn muscles brought tears swimming to her eyes.

‘You would rather have fallen?’ She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer through pain and tears. ‘And I haven’t dislocated anything.’ He moved her arm, none too gently, and she groaned involuntarily and let her head fall forward on to his naked chest. ‘See? Still in working order. No thanks to you.’

No wonder he had been so quick to reach her, she thought. He hadn’t bothered to dry himself or put on more than a pair of shorts. But she was too weak with pain and exhaustion to move. Instead she lay very still, her cheek pressed against the dark hair that stippled his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat, while she tried to recover her strength. But he wasn’t finished with her yet.

‘You have dangerous hobbies, Sophie Nash.’ He grasped her plait and yanked up her head, forcing her to confront him. ‘But then, it isn’t a hobby, is it?’ She yelped and fresh tears started to her eyes, but he didn’t care. His grasp only tightened, so that it was impossible to move without pain. ‘Nevertheless, climbing alone, without a safety line, is just about the most stupid, reckless...’ He stopped, clearly too angry to continue. Really angry. Those pirate’s eyes were fierce enough to kill. ‘Does anyone know where you are? If you’d fallen would anyone ever have known what had happened to you?’

How could he be so utterly heartless? Surely he must see that she was in agony? ‘Someone would have found my car,’ she gasped out.

‘Someone would have found your car?’ he repeated, in utter disbelief. “‘Here lie some bits and pieces of Sophie Nash. We know it was her because we found her car.” Some epitaph.’ Then the fact that silent tears were by now pouring down her face and on to his chest apparently penetrated, because he loosened his grasp of her hair and she almost whimpered with relief. But he hadn’t finished. ‘Let me tell you, girl, that you don’t have much of a career as a paparazzo ahead of you if you ignore the simplest safety precautions.’

‘I’m not a paparazzo,’ she protested.

‘You’re giving a very good impression of one. For God’s sake, is a photograph of me so valuable that it’s worth risking your life? Whoever commissioned you must have promised to pay you a very great deal of money.’ He frowned, then rolled over, pinning her against the rock-hard ground, crushing her breasts against his naked chest until she could hardly breathe. ‘Who was it, Sophie?’

Pay? He thought she would do this for money? Days trailing around holiday resorts at the crack of dawn when they were deserted, making the best of hotels so that they should look exotic and desirable holiday destinations, that was what she was paid for.

Her attempt to get a photograph of the great Chay Buchanan while she was on the island had not been for the vast sums paid to professional paparazzi. It had been for something infinitely more precious. For a moment she was tempted to tell him. Ask him... She met his eyes and hope died. Chay Buchanan hadn’t just turned her down when she had wanted to take his photograph. He had been...contemptuous. Anger, determination, sheer bloody-mindedness, had blinded her to the folly, the very real risk, of what she was doing.

She lay, too weak to move, her head thudding with pain from his maltreatment of her scalp. More likely the bang on your forehead, that know-it-all inner voice immediately contradicted her. She would have liked to touch the tender spot, check it out to assess the damage, but his weight fixed her to the spot and she lay quite helpless. She opened her lids to meet the angry onslaught of his eyes.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

She had been stupid. She knew it, was prepared to admit it. To herself. But she certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so. And she wasn’t going to tell him about Nigel. She had the feeling that Nigel wouldn’t like that at all.

‘I wanted a photograph of you to hang on my bedroom wall,’ she managed to snap out. ‘I’m a fan.’

For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his lips curved in a parody of a smile. ‘I don’t think so, Miss Nash. I believe it would take a great deal more than that to send you down that cliff.’

‘You’re too modest, Mr Buchanan. Besides, it was easy enough,’ she gasped, but the pain in her shoulder, her head, and torn and bleeding hands made a liar of her. Easy enough getting down.

‘Easy?’ he sneered. ‘If it had been easy you wouldn’t be lying here, you would be racing to Luqa airport now with your ill-gotten gains.’

She lay back against the hard rock. He was right, of course, and now he would take the films and she would have to tell Nigel she had failed, appeal to his sense of honour. A hollow little voice suggested that Nigel was not overburdened with the stuff. But Chay Buchanan mustn’t know how much it mattered.

‘I wasn’t in a hurry,’ she said, as if strolling up a rockface was an everyday occurrence. ‘I was...admiring the view,’ she added, with a slightly wobbly attempt at airiness.

‘You won’t admit it, will you?’ he replied, clearly infuriated by this unrepentant display of bravado. Then he eased himself away from her, letting his eyes trail insolently from a pair of clear grey eyes, by way of a very ordinary nose and a full, over-large mouth, to linger on a bosom that rose and fell far too rapidly. ‘But you’re right about one thing. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the view.’

Sophie felt the colour flood to her face as she realised just how vulnerable she was. Pinned to the ground by his body, she had made not the slightest effort to free herself. ‘How...how dare you?’ she blustered, attempting to fling herself away from him, but he had her effortlessly pinioned between a pair of powerful thighs.