Prisoner Of The Heart
‘Don’t go all shy on me, Sophie. This morning you were quite prepared to offer me anything I wanted for that photograph.’
‘That’s not true! Let me go!’ she demanded. Then, breathlessly, as his fingers brushed against her breast and the tip involuntarily tightened to his touch, she squeaked, ‘What are you doing?’ her grey eyes widening in alarm. ‘Stop it!’
‘You don’t really mean that, Sophie Nash,’ he said, knowing eyes dwelling momentarily on the tell-tale peaks thrusting against the thin white cotton of her shirt. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed. Sex is the obvious response to a brush with death. It’s simply nature’s prompting to ensure the perpetuation of the species. But I’m afraid that right now I have something else on my mind.’
He flipped open the button of her breast-pocket and removed the film she had stowed there for safety. Then, without haste, not deliberately touching her but making no effort to avoid the inevitable intimacy, he thoroughly searched the rest of her pockets, while she squirmed with embarrassment. ‘Just one roll?’ he said at last.
She swallowed, then, very slowly, she nodded. For a moment he stared at her and she held her breath, certain that he would challenge her, would see the blatant lie. But her cheeks were already flaming from the intimacy of his touch and apparently satisfied he stood up, pulling her to her feet and half supporting her as her legs refused to work properly. He propelled her back towards the edge of the cliff.
‘No!’ She tried to step back but he held her fast, and she was too frightened of falling to attempt to jerk free. ‘What...are you going to do?’ He didn’t answer, but took one gashed and bleeding hand, placed the spool of film into it and wrapped her stiff, rapidly swelling fingers around it. She glanced up at him uncertainly.
‘Throw it into the sea, Sophie Nash,’ he commanded, his words eerily echoing her own thoughts as she had perched on the ledge. But that had been before his hands had ransacked her pockets without a thought for her feelings. And his feelings? her over-active conscience prompted. But she was in no mood to listen to such stuff. He had no feelings. He was just a great big bully.
‘No!’ She defied him.
His hand gripped her arm more tightly. ‘Do as I say.’
‘No, damn you. I worked hard for those pictures. Do your own dirty work.’
That’s rich, coming from someone who spies on other people for a living. Throw it!’ For a long moment she outfaced him, chin high, eyes blazing. ‘Throw it!’ he demanded.
Slowly, almost against her will, she turned to stare down at the white sea boiling around the rocks. It was oddly hypnotic, almost mesmerising. She began to sway towards it, only to be snapped back by Chay with a fierce oath. With a faint moan she turned and buried her face in his chest, and for a moment he held her and she knew he had been right. She could so easily have fallen.
And he was right about something else. Held against the warmth of his chest, almost drowning in the scent of his skin, the sharp tang of sweat and sea-water so strong that she could almost taste the salt, she wanted him to pull her down to the ground and take her, right there in the open air, with the sound of the sea pounding in her ears. The knowledge was as brutal as a slap in the face.
Horrified by desire so raw she could practically taste it, she tore herself away from him on legs weak from more than the terror of falling. It was far more frightening than that. She had to get away from this man. As quickly as possible, and not just because of her appalling reaction to him. He had found one film but she- might still get away with the others. Might still snatch her moment of triumph.
She bent to pick up her bag, wincing as its weight bit into her fingers, staggering a little as the ground dipped and swayed. The feeling was beginning to come back to her hands with a vengeance, the cuts and grazes stinging viciously and making her feel nauseous.
‘Nice try, Sophie. But I’ll have the film.’ He caught her wrist, turning her roughly, and for a moment she thought he had guessed. But he forced open her fingers, still curled tightly around the little cassette, and she cried out involuntarily. For a moment he stared at her hand, then with a sharp impatient movement he said, ‘You’d better come inside and clean these.’
‘I’m all right,’ she protested hoarsely. He hadn’t suspected. ‘I’ll go back to my hotel,’ she said quickly. Except that she’d already checked out. Her bags were in the car. She would be driving straight to the airport where she could clean up and change back into the pristine two-piece she had been wearing when she had called on him earlier. And, once she was inside the departure lounge, she would be beyond his reach.
‘You think you can drive in that state?’ he uttered in disbelief.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said desperately. All she wanted was to get to the car and sit down for a moment, until this sickening weakness passed. She paused. ‘I suppose I should thank you for saving me,’ she added, a little grudgingly.
‘Yes, you should,’ he ground out. ‘But we’re so far beyond the niceties of good manners that I’d prefer it if you didn’t bother.’
Hackles rose at his sharp, contemptuous tone. ‘I won’t! In fact, Mr Buchanan, you can rest assured that I won’t bother you ever again.’
‘I wish I could believe that, Sophie Nash. Why don’t I?’ His eyes fastened on the bag biting painfully into her shoulder, and before she could prevent him he had slipped it away from her and was hefting it thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I’d better keep this to be on the safe side.’
Her grey eyes widened in horror and she flung herself at him, making a grab for the bag. ‘No!’ she cried as he effortlessly whisked it out of her reach. Everything spun horribly from the sudden movement.
‘No?’ he enquired.
‘It’s just my camera. I can’t work without it.’
‘That is supposed to appeal to my better nature? Frankly, I can’t think of anything that would please me more.’
‘I doubt you have a better nature!’ she flung at him.
‘Then you are beginning to show some sense at last.’ He glanced at the bag. ‘This is just your camera? You went to a lot of trouble for just one roll of film. How long were you down on the ledge?’
‘Hours,’ she admitted. ‘But you were only there for a few minutes.’
‘True. But how long does it take with a motor-drive?’
‘Not long,’ she admitted. Then she took a gamble. ‘In fact there are about sixty exposed films in my bag. I’ve been working all week for a tour company, taking pictures for next year’s brochures.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’ he asked.
Her hands were beginning to throb horribly and she lifted them in a helpless little gesture. ‘Why not? It’s the truth.’ She swallowed as saliva began to flood her mouth. Another moment and she knew she would be sick. If only he would let her go so that she could just sit down for a minute. But he was relentless.
‘Come on, Sophie Nash. You can’t expect me to believe that you would risk all that work?’ he said incredulously.
‘Risk?’ Nothing was making much sense. She was the one who had been at risk.
‘You might have dropped your bag while you were climbing down.’
‘I...’ She blinked as he began to recede. ‘I was very careful.’ She took a step, but the ground seemed to be made of foam rubber. Surprised, she reached out a hand to steady herself and he caught it.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be...’ She lifted her hand to her head and saw the blood running down her fingers. Then, mercifully, everything went black.
CHAPTER TWO
SOPHIE woke with a throbbing head and dry mouth, every part of her aching. The room was dim, what light there was slanting through two pairs of louvred shutters closed on tall windows. She raised her wrist to see what time it was and heard a groan. It was a moment or two before she realised the sound had come from her own lips.
She stared at bruised, swollen fingers, that looked as if they might have been through a wringer, and winced. Her fingers. And memory began to rush back, a little confused, but with the basic facts intact. The slow motion nightmare as she had tried to make it to the cliff-top. And she had nearly made it. Would have made it. Only Chay Buchanan had been waiting for her.
She looked around her at the strange room and then with a rush of horror she knew. She was in the lion’s den. Worse. She groaned, and this time the response was quite deliberate. She was in the lion’s bed.
The thought was enough to drag her protesting body from the smooth linen sheet, but as she propped herself against the great carved bedhead and the sheet slipped from her body something else became startlingly obvious. She was naked. She gingerly grasped the sheet between her fingers and lifted it. Utterly naked. Someone had undressed her.
Who? It seemed vitally important that she remember. Then, rather hurriedly, she blotted out the thought before she did. She didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of her unconscious body being undressed by Chay Buchanan. Instead she focused her attention on her surroundings.
She was in a long, wide room, the stone walls painted matt white, with two large panels, glowing blue-green abstractions of the sea, the only decoration. The floor was of some dark polished wood. On it were laid rich Bukhara rugs, barred with faint stripes of light that filtered through louvred shutters closed over floor-to-ceiling windows. Apart from the bed, flanked by nighttables and a pair of tall Chinese lamps, the only furniture was an enormous chest of drawers with heavy brass handles and an equally impressive wardrobe. A man’s room. Completely devoid of any woman’s touch.
She rose unsteadily, dragged the sheet from the bed, clumsily wrapped it about her with fingers that refused to bend properly and staggered to the bathroom at the far end of the room. Halfway there she questioned her knowledge that it was a bathroom, but with the question came the all too shocking answer. She remembered. And blushed hot and painfully at the memory.
He had brought her here. She had been dimly aware of being carried up a wide staircase. Then he had propped her up and the sudden rush of water had brought her gasping back to life as he had stood with her in the enormous shower-stall, stripping her while the cascade of warm water had washed away dust and sweat and blood.
She tried to swallow, but her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth as she remembered how, too weak to stand unaided, she had simply leaned against him, her head against his shoulder, her breasts startlingly white against the dark tan of his chest. She had been incapable of protest as he had held her around the waist and briskly soaped her with a huge sponge, rinsed her, dried her and wrapped her in a soft white bathrobe and bathed her hands with antiseptic, his fingers gentle, even if the straight, hard lines of his mouth and his angry eyes had made his feelings more than plain.
The mirror alongside the bath reflected bright spots of colour that rouged her cheeks like patches on a rag doll’s face against the whiteness of her skin, the pale gold shock of hair. And he had threatened her with a dungeon. She had the unnerving feeling that his dungeon would be far safer than his bathroom.
But one question was answered. There was no Mrs Buchanan. No wife, however tolerant, would have put up with such goings on. She glanced around, and the lack of feminine accoutrements confirmed the fact that whoever usually shared Chay Buchanan’s king-sized bed she certainly wasn’t a permanent fixture. She forced herself to her feet and opened the bathroom cabinet. Not even constant enough to have left a toothbrush. She quickly closed the door. It was none of her business, she told herself firmly.
But it was too late to blot out the image of his personal toiletries, his exquisite taste in cologne, the fact that he used an open razor.
‘Have you seen enough? Or do you want the guided tour?’
She spun round, then wished she hadn’t as the room lurched sickeningly. She leaned momentarily against the cool richness of Catalan tiles that decorated the wall. Then, as she followed the direction of his eyes, tugged desperately at the sheet, which had shifted alarmingly as she turned, a sudden coolness warned her that it had left her rear exposed. She edged sideways as she caught her reflection in the mirror alongside the bath. How on earth had she got that bruise on her shoulder? She lifted it slightly and the pain brought instant recall of the tearing jerk as he had hauled her over the edge of the cliff to safety.
‘I was looking for some painkillers,’ she said, with a brave attempt at dignified suffering.
His lip curled derisively. ‘Of course you were.’ He took her arm and led her firmly back to the bed. ‘Lie down and I’ll bring you something.’
‘I’m not an invalid.’
‘No, just a pain in the backside. But you’d better lie down before you fall down.’ She sat down abruptly on the bed, but only because her legs were so wobbly. It was nothing to do with his telling her to and she stubbornly refused the cool enticement of a down pillow.
‘If you’ll bring my clothes, I’ll stop being a pain in the—’ she started angrily, then stopped, gathered herself a little. She couldn’t afford to aggravate the man any further. ‘If you’ll bring my clothes, I’ll be happy to leave,’ she said, with exaggerated politeness.
‘Please?’ he suggested.
For a moment her large grey eyes snapped dangerously. ‘Do I have to beg for my own clothes?’ she demanded. He didn’t reply, merely waited. And waited. Apparently she did. ‘Please,’ she ground out through clenched teeth.
‘That’s better. But I’m afraid your clothes are being washed. Perhaps you can have them tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow! But I have a plane to catch—’
‘Had a plane to catch. I contacted the airport and cancelled your booking.’
‘You did what?’ she exclaimed, ignoring the sharp reminder that scythed through her head that anything much above a whisper was inadvisable. ‘You had no right to do that!’ No right to go through her handbag. Look at her personal things.
‘Since you were in no position to use it, and since it’s an open ticket, I thought you might be grateful to have the opportunity to re-book. I suppose I should have known better.’
‘I’m fine!’ she declared, with a careless disregard for the truth. ‘You can keep your washing. I’m leaving.’ She rose a little shakily, hitching- the sheet up and taking a step in the direction of the door only to find him barring her way. ‘Right now,’ she said.
He immediately stood back and offered her the door. ‘As you please. I moved your car into the garage.’
Along with her suitcase with all her clothes. She would have liked to march out, chin high, but the wretched sheet made that impossible. She was all too aware of a mocking little smile twisting his mouth as she edged sideways and backed towards the door. He made no move to stop her but watched her attempt at a dignified departure with scarcely veiled amusement, and suddenly she knew it couldn’t be that easy. She halted uncertainly.
‘But?’ she demanded.
‘But,’ he agreed, his green pirate eyes glinting wickedly. ‘Alas, the keys are not with it. But maybe you’re a dab hand with a hot wire? In your job I imagine it would come in useful.’
‘Of course not!’
‘No? What a pity. Perhaps you should learn. Then again, you would still have the problem of clothes. Because I removed your bag, too. For safe-keeping. Or maybe you don’t mind arriving at a hotel wearing nothing but that rather ineffectual attempt at a sarong.’
She clutched the sheet a little tighter, unwilling to risk dropping it from stiff fingers if she tried to wrap it around her more thoroughly.
‘And since time seems to have passed rather more rapidly than you imagine, I have to inform you that the plane you are so eager to catch left several hours ago.’
Sophie stared at him, then turned to the windows and the light filtering through the shutters. ‘How long have I been here?’ she demanded. ‘What time is it?’ She dropped a glance to her wrist. ‘Is my watch in the laundry too?’ Not waiting for his answer, no longer caring about modesty–after all, he’d already seen a great deal more than her backside–she swept across the room and threw open one of the shutters to admit a whisper of light and stared out. The sea was flat calm, a pale milky blue under a thin veil of mist that curtained the sun. An early-morning sun.
‘I’ve been here all night?’ But it wasn’t really a question. The slightly unnerving answer was confronting her.
‘All night, Sophie Nash,’ he affirmed. ‘Wouldn’t that have made an exciting caption for your photographs? “My night with Chay Buchanan,”’ he offered, with just enough conviction to bring the colour flooding to her pale complexion.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t spend the night with you,’ she said, but her mouth was dry and she steadfastly refused to give in to the temptation to turn and check the other pillow for evidence that the bed had been occupied by two.
‘You did, but it’s all a matter of intepretation, isn’t it? And the doctor insisted that someone must keep an eye on you.’
Her eyes flew wide open and this time she could not help herself. But the swift involuntary glance at the huge bed told her nothing. ‘An eye on me?’ she asked huskily.
‘In case of concussion.’ His long fingers combed back the tangle of sun-bleached curls from her forehead and he lightly touched the dark shadow of a bruise. ‘You took quite a knock, Sophie Nash.’
She winced, raised her own hand to the spot and felt the slight swelling. She drew a long shuddering breath, whether from the pain or the cool touch of his fingers she could not have told–perhaps didn’t want to know. But she did know that it wasn’t possible for her to stay a moment longer in Chay Buchanan’s tower. She drew herself up to her full height, and five feet and six inches in her bare feet had never felt quite so insubstantial. ‘Then I really mustn’t put you to any more trouble, Mr Buchanan,’ she said with all the dignitiy she could muster, wrapped inadequately as she was in nothing but a sheet. ‘I should like to go now.’
‘That isn’t possible. Even if I were prepared to let you go, you’re in no fit state to travel. But if you do as you’re told and get back into bed I’ll go and fetch some of the painkillers the doctor left.’
Doctor? It was the second time he had mentioned a doctor, but she didn’t remember one. She must have taken a much harder crack on the head than she had thought. But right now that didn’t matter. There was something far more important to get straight. ‘What do you mean?’ She dug her toes into the rug as he took her arm, resisting his firm urging towards the bed. ‘If you were prepared to let me go...? You can’t keep me here against my will. That’s...’ Her mouth dried. ‘That’s kidnapping.’
‘Is it?’ Heavy lids drooped slightly, concealing the expression in his eyes. ‘Would you like me to ask the local constabulary to despatch an officer to listen to your complaint?’ he offered, with every evidence of civility. But there was a muscle working dangerously at the corner of his mouth.
‘Yes!’ she flung defiantly, daring him to do just that.
He nodded. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ He gestured vaguely and walked to the door.
‘But...’ She took an uncertain step after him. ‘You’re really going to do it?’
‘Of course. Kidnapping is a very serious charge,’ he said crisply. ‘You should press it home with all the force at your command.’
‘I will,’ she declared. Then her challenge faltered under his unwavering gaze. ‘Why do I feel another “but” coming on?’
‘Could it be that common sense has suggested that you were about to make a fool of yourself?’
‘Why should it do that?’ she demanded.
‘Just think about it for a moment,’ he instructed her. ‘Think about the fact that I rescued you from a very dangerous situation. That I—’
‘I could have managed!’
He didn’t even bother to comment on the absurdity of that remark, but continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘That I brought you to my home, bathed your wounds-’
‘And a great deal else.’ She flushed as his mouth curved in a provoking little smile. Stupid. Stupid to have mentioned that. Why couldn’t she have forgotten that?
‘I bathed your wounds,’ he repeated, ‘before I put you into my own bed and sent for a doctor, who advised several days of rest.’ He paused. ‘It doesn’t sound much like kidnapping to me. But—’ and he shrugged ‘–if you think the police will be interested I’ll get them right now.’ He waited for her response—imperious, tyrannical, scornful and infuriatingly right.
She didn’t need to have it spelled out for her in words of one syllable. He would make himself sound like a hero with her playing the role of an ungrateful idiot. If he threw in the fact that she had been trespassing–she didn’t think he would worry too much about the finer details of truth–he would probably be beatified. Given his own feast-day. With fireworks. Damn! ‘Forget the police,’ she muttered. ‘But I don’t want to rest. I just want to leave.’
‘If you think that having you as a house-guest is an undiluted pleasure, Miss Nash, I have to tell you that you’re mistaken. I value my privacy and you’ll go the minute it’s possible. We’ll discuss terms after breakfast.’ He turned abruptly to leave. ‘I recommend a lightly boiled egg.’
‘A boiled egg? I thought bread and water was the traditional prisoner’s fare,’ she threw after him.
His eyes darkened. Sea-green? Maybe. But what sea? The Arctic Ocean in mid-winter, perhaps? ‘If that’s what you want...’ He snapped the door shut behind him.
‘Wait!’ But she was already talking to herself. Then in a sudden quiver of panic she ran across the room, and ignoring her painful hands almost tore at the door. But it wasn’t locked. For a moment she stood there, in the-open doorway, wondering whether to make a run for it down the thickly carpeted stairway. She glanced down at herself. He wasn’t that careless. He didn’t need a lock to keep her confined. How far would she get in a sheet, without any shoes? Without any money. She retreated into the bedroom and closed the door.
Think, Sophie, she urged herself. You need a plan. Forget the plan, she answered herself a little caustically. What you need first are some clothes. Her glance fell on the chest of drawers and, for the first time since she woke, her mouth curved in the semblance of a smile.
She gripped the brass handle of one of the drawers and pulled, biting back a cry as pain shot through her shoulder where Chay Buchanan had hauled her over the edge of the cliff. She gave up all attempts to cling on to the sheet as she eased it, recalling with a tiny spurt of anger the huge bruise that decorated her back. Monster! He hadn’t needed to drag her up like that. She could have managed. Oh, really? Yes, really, she told the irritating little voice inside her head. Of course she could. But the recollection of that sickening lurch as she had missed her foothold and started to slip made her flesh rise in goose-bumps, and she shivered despite the warmth stealing in through the window as the early morning mist was burned off the sea. She had to get out of here.
She regarded the chest with loathing, but to escape she needed something to wear. This time she grasped both handles and the drawer slid open to reveal piles of beautifully ironed shirts. And this time she really smiled, with an almost irresistible curve of her lips.
She helped herself to a pale blue cotton shirt, easing her painful shoulder up to slide into the sleeve. The shirt was too big, hanging almost to her knees, but that was good. At a pinch, with a belt, she could wear it as a dress. She tried to fasten the buttons, but her fingers were stiff and painful, slowing her down, and she gave up after a couple.
She rifled through the remainder of the drawers, ignoring the ties but helping herself to a pair of thick white socks that would cushion her feet against stone. Pants? She regarded Chay Buchanan’s taste for plain white American boxer shorts with dismay. They would never stay up. What she really needed was a pair of jeans and a belt. Her fingers grasped the handles of the bottom drawer as she heard his voice speaking to someone on the stairs.