Sweet Madness
‘I’m a fashion photographer now, Ms Gilbert. No more, no less. If you’re looking for something deeper, something more meaningful, then you can walk out of this door right now.’
She held her breath.
‘If, on the other hand, you want to learn how to take good professional fashion shots, then I’m your man.’
This last flat statement none the less sounded so like every woman’s fantasy about Declan Hunt that Sam’s thoughts were thrown into such confusion and she thought she must have misheard him.
‘Wh-at?’
He gave her a look which might almost have indicated that he was in danger of changing his mind, so Sam forced herself to ask as casually as she could manage, ‘You’re offering me the job as your assistant?’
He nodded. ‘If you want it.’
Oh, she wanted it. No doubt about that; what puzzled her was why he wanted her. ‘But why me, a woman, after all you said about women?’
He frowned, then leant forward to the black folder which was on the table in front of him. It was her portfolio. He took out a black and white photo and held it up.
‘Because of this,’ he said, then, possibly to temper what sounded like unconditional praise, proceeded to tear it to pieces. ‘Oh, it’s crude,’ he amended, ‘in terms of composition. It’s over-exposed and poorly lit. And yet . . .’
‘Yet?’ she prompted, tentatively—marvelling how his whole demeanour had changed when he spoke about the photograph—his face suddenly mobile, a certain animation about him as he gestured with the fine-boned, long-fingered hands. As though he had lost himself in the picture.
‘Like all good pictures, it tells a story.’ He fixed her with a sudden swift searing look. ‘An unusual story, and one which I can’t work out.’
Sam had been snapping children at Flora’s birthday party, capturing the extremes of children’s behaviour—the joy, the tears and the tantrums—but Declan Hunt had picked on the portrait of Flora herself taken two years ago, when she was only five. She’d given that shy smile which so rarely lit up her face, but even while smiling there came across the rawly vulnerable streak which lay at the heart of the child.
‘She’s sad,’ he said softly.
Sam’s throat constricted. Was it that plain? Or only to him—with those eyes which had been trained to see through to the core of every subject? What child wouldn’t be sad with parents constantly caught up in their own private war? ‘A little sad, perhaps. I must have caught her on a bad day,’ she lied baldly, aware that he was waiting for more, but she wasn’t prepared to give him any more.
His eyes narrowed, as if exploring his own possible explanations for her reticence to expand on the subject. ‘I should have asked if you have any outside commitments?’ he probed. ‘Anything which would prevent you from giving less than a hundred per cent to the job? My hours are more demanding than Robin’s ever were.’
She looked at him, her dark eyes huge with query. ‘Such as?’
‘A husband and daughter?’
She looked down at the photograph of Flora he was still holding, then down at her hands, a quick movement which hid her eyes, and then it suddenly clicked what he had inferred. Dear heaven—he was referring to the incident at the restaurant the other day. She remembered holding Flora tight, hugging her against her chest and then looking up slowly, some sixth sense telling her that she was being watched, to find that intense blue gaze upon her. Did Declan imagine that Bob was her husband, Flora her child? Oh, the irony if he did—for he couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d tried.
‘Flora is my niece, Charlotte and Bob’s child. Bob—the man you saw—is Charlotte’s husband, not mine,’ she stated, then gave him a determined smile. ‘If you’re offering me the job, Mr Hunt, I’d like to accept.’
‘Declan, then. Welcome.’ He held out a hand and she did the same, allowing him to enclose her own in his firm, warm grip, aware of some thrill of recognition striking deep within her as flesh met flesh, and her conventional thanks flew out of her head as she was rendered speechless by the impact.
Dear heaven, she remonstrated silently once more, as the dark blue eyes surveyed her with nothing more than curiosity, is this how much of a prude you’ve become, that a man’s touch can threaten to knock you right off balance? It was a simple handshake, nothing more. A deal sealed. Say something quickly, before he changes his mind.
‘Thanks—Declan.’ Exit on dry wit, she thought, and smiled. ‘And I do want to reassure you that I promise to sublimate all those unattractive feminine qualities which you find so incompatible with work.’ Except that somehow sublimate seemed to be entirely the wrong word, for his eyebrows arched arrogantly as she uttered it.
‘Take most of what I said with a pinch of salt, Sam.’ There was a glint of unholy devilment in those sea-dark eyes. ‘I’m not really such an out-and-out chauvinist—but I haven’t the easiest manner in the world when I’m working. Just testing that you could cope with it.’
So his provocative comments had all been his own bizarre form of interview technique! Sam glowered, tempted to—what? Her pulses were singing with temper—surely it was temper?—and she waited for him to speak, because she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to say anything that wasn’t grossly insubordinate, when at that moment the telephone rang.
He picked it up, listened, smiled, said, ‘Fran!’ as though someone had just told him he’d won the national lottery. ‘Just one minute,’ he said, then put his hand over the receiver. ‘Phone my secretary tomorrow. Start date—when? A fortnight?’
‘A month.’
He shook his head. ‘A fortnight. I’ll see you then.’ And he gave her a polite nod of dismissal, continuing his conversation with ‘Fran’—whoever she was—the knockout redhead he’d been with in the restaurant probably, thought Sam with unwelcome resentment.
She left the studio, trying to walk normally across the vast floor area, which was difficult when she knew that those enigmatic eyes were watching her, wondering why she should not be feeling like whooping for joy that she’d just landed a job with one of the world’s greatest photographers.
Because joy was too strong a word to describe her feelings. Too strong and too simple.
She’d never come out of a job interview like this before, as churned up inside as if someone had just put her through the wringer. But then she’d never met a man like Declan before.
A brilliant man who was so abrasive, so unsettling.
And sexy as hell.
CHAPTER TWO
‘WHY didn’t you warn me?’ Sam swung round to face Robin accusingly, the large silver hooped earrings she wore swaying wildly, like swings in a bird-cage.
‘Warn you about what?’ asked Robin, mock-innocently, a grin on his face.
‘Him! Declan Hunt. He’s unbelievable.’
‘I did warn you—I told you that he was a genius. And a bastard. I thought that three years of working in the States might have tamed him a little, but apparently not.’
Something in Robin’s eyes prompted her next question. ‘What’s he like?’
He shrugged. ‘Who really knows with Declan? He’s an intensely private man. I gave him his first job, you know. It’s funny—even at eighteen I knew that he had the talent to go right to the top, to outclass anyone else of his generation.’ He smiled at her. ‘So he’s offered you the job, huh? And naturally you’ve accepted.’
Sam shrugged, knowing that she would never share with Declan Hunt the kind of easygoing working relationship she had with Robin. ‘I’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t I?’
‘I don’t think so, but then I’m biased, aren’t I? I’d rather have you stay here, with me.’
Sam smiled at Robin Squires. Though at fifty he was around two decades older than Declan, he too wore the ubiquitous denim. His broad cockney accent was an affectation, since he came from one of England’s most aristocratic families, and it was this that set him apart—since many clients were still impressed by someone who not only took good pictures, but had a title, too.
She shook her head regretfully. ‘Oh, if only I could—anything for an easy life—but this girl’s career is demanding to take off, and Declan Hunt provides the world’s best launching pad.’ She frowned. ‘He told me that my being a woman worried him, that he finds them emotional to work with.’
Robin looked at her quickly. ‘He said that?’ He picked up an eyeglass to scan a whole sheet of tiny ‘contact’ photographs, and remarked almost casually, ‘You know that Gita used to be his assistant?’
Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. ‘Gita?’ she verified. ‘His assistant? Your Gita?’
Robin put down the eyeglass. ‘There’s only one Gita.’ He gave a kind of blank smile. ‘Isn’t there?’
Yes, indeed. Robin’s exquisite Indian wife had been the model of her decade, retiring much too early, according to the pundits.
Gita.
With those wide dark-brown-velvet eyes that a man could lose himself in, silky skin the colour of milky coffee, and long, aristocratic limbs. And as Lady Squires, Robin’s wife, she now had a different career—that of society beauty. Her two homes were always being featured in magazine and newspaper articles. And no race meeting was considered anything if Gita was not there, wearing one of the millinery creations for which she was famous.
These days she rarely ventured near Robin’s studio, and on the few occasions that Sam had met her she had found her stunning, aloof—and very slightly terrifying.
Sam frowned. ‘I had no idea that Gita did photography before she started modelling.’
‘Why should you have known? It was way before your time, and it’s not something that I particularly broadcast. Anyway, she wasn’t his assistant for very long. Declan saw her potential, decided she was wasted behind the lens—he took some shots and the rest, as they say, is history. They became overnight successes, and never looked back. In the beginning, she wouldn’t let anyone else photograph her, which only added to his, and her, mystique.’ He shot her another glance. ‘You knew that they were involved, didn’t you? Emotionally, as well as professionally?’ He spoke the words quickly as if to get them over with, like a child gulping down a particularly nasty dose of medicine.
Sam shook her head, surprised by the sudden, inexplicable lurching of her heart. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She was curious to know more, and yet, at the same time, strangely reluctant to hear it. ‘Was it—serious?’
Robin gave a laugh which sounded forced. ‘Very. The beautiful couple with the world at their feet. They could have been the Taylor-Burton combination of the photographic world.’
‘But I don’t remember reading anything about it,’ said Sam slowly.
‘You wouldn’t have done. Declan is a man who guards his privacy well. He managed to keep the affair out of the tabloids, much to Gita’s chagrin. She is—’ he gave a rueful smile ‘—a keen self-publicist.’
‘So what happened between them?’ Sam was bursting with a need to know, then realised that Robin might consider it prying. ‘Unless you’d rather not talk about it?’
But he shook his head. ‘Our hero became disillusioned with the glitzy world of glamour photography and decided to do something meaningful with his life. This caused fireworks with Gita. She wanted a man at her side, not on the other side of the world. She gave Declan an ultimatum, which basically boiled down to if he did go and work in a war zone then it was all over between them.’
‘And he . . .?’ asked Sam tentatively.
Robin laughed. ‘Declan’s not a man you can tame, or bribe. He went right ahead with his plan. Naturally, being Declan, he excelled at photo-journalism, too. As you know, he became something of a national hero, when his war photographs were taken up by news agencies all around the world and were credited with achieving peace negotiations, where everything else had failed.’
‘And—Gita?’ probed Sam hesitantly.
‘Oh, Gita.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid that the war lost him Gita, because while he was out getting shot at she decided to marry me.’
‘But—why?’ said Sam, without thinking, then saw his face and could have kicked herself. ‘I’m sorry, Robin—I didn’t mean—’
He shook his head. ‘I had something which Gita wanted.’
‘What do you mean?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, come on, Sam! A title. She’s an ambitious lady, is my beautiful Gita, and marriage to me meant instant entry into the English aristocracy.’
‘But wasn’t Declan your—friend?’ she asked haltingly.
Robin gave a wry smile. ‘In as much as anyone could be a friend to Declan. He isn’t like other people. There’s something that sets him apart. Even Gita said that. You mean did I feel bad about stealing his girl?’ He laughed again, that same empty laugh. ‘Oh, I didn’t feel great about it; I should have resisted, but Gita is a fairly irresistible lady. She wanted me, and what she wants she usually gets.’
‘And did Declan—I mean—do you still speak?’
Robin looked at her in surprise. ‘Oh, Declan isn’t a man to bear a grudge. “The best man won” was what he said at the time. But whether Gita would agree, now that he’s back, I’m not sure,’ he finished in an undertone which Sam had to strain her ears to hear.
She set about making coffee for them both, still puzzled by what Robin had let slip. Had he been implying that Gita was still carrying a torch for Declan? And what of Declan’s feelings for Gita?
Sam shook her head and sipped her coffee. It’s none of your business, Sam Gilbert, she told herself sternly, as she went into the dark-room to develop a film.
She started work exactly a fortnight later. The journey from her flat in Knightsbridge was not exactly long, or arduous, but she took care to rise at least an hour earlier than she needed, and caught the Tube to Declan’s studio.
She had been back there just the once, when he had given her a key, and introduced her to the one other permanent member of his staff, and she had been amused to note that his reservations about working with women were backed up by fact, since his secretary-cum-receptionist was a man! Michael Hargreaves was a couple of years younger than his boss, well-spoken, and exceedingly polite—he probably had to be to compensate for his boss’s shortcomings she thought. He also, according to Declan, spoke four languages with ease, and had a heftily impressive Classics degree from Oxford. So quite what he was doing in a rather dead-end job as secretary she couldn’t imagine.
She had thought that she’d be there before Declan, but as she pushed the door open she was greeted by the sight of his undeniably attractive posterior, clad in clinging black denim, as he fiddled around with a maze of thick black wires on the floor, and she was startled by the tingling as the little hairs at the back of her neck prickled in response to him. For Sam, it was an entirely new and not very welcome sensation, this blatantly physical response to a man she neither really knew nor particularly liked.
‘Get me a screwdriver from out of the tool-box, would you?’ he ordered abruptly, without turning round.
He obviously didn’t believe in the red-carpet treatment, she thought crossly, as she draped her satchel over the back of a light-stand. A ‘Good morning, Sam—welcome to your new job’ wouldn’t have cost him much. ‘Where is it?’
‘Believe it or not, it’s the large box in the corner, cunningly marked “tools”,’ he returned sarcastically.
She walked over to the tool-box, opened it, and extracted two screwdrivers which she thought would do. ‘But “tools” could mean anything, don’t you think?’ she answered, matching his sarcasm, with a sudden need to show him that she could give as good as she could get. ‘For all I know it could be where you keep your supply of beer.’
‘Come over here,’ he said, completely ignoring her last remark, and indicated the space next to him. ‘I need you to hold this wire for me.’
She crouched down beside him, and took the wire he’d pointed at, aware suddenly, and almost painfully, of his closeness. He was so close that she could detect some faint scent of lemon—soap, probably; somehow she could not imagine a man like Declan Hunt splashing aftershave all over that impressively shaped neck. So close, in fact, that she could see a minute scar which traced a thin line down one cheek, and just below it his razor had just slightly nicked a tiny spot of blood at the curve of a jaw which was both strong and sensual. A newly shaved jaw, but one where the shadow of the new beard would shortly reappear. He looked, she thought, like the kind of man who would probably shave twice a day and still have a darkly shadowed jaw . . .
‘Far be it from me to interrupt your little reverie . . .’ he drawled.
To her horror, she realised that he had been speaking to her, and she hadn’t heard a word of it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she babbled quickly. ‘I was miles away.’
‘Hmm. Well, don’t daydream on my time.’
‘I won’t.’ Well, if he had noticed her gazing at him like a soppy puppy, at least he had the decency not to draw attention to it.
He rose to his feet, and she did the same, a sudden flare of excitement running through her involuntarily which made her cheeks grow hot as she noticed that he was subjecting her to a similar kind of scrutiny—the only difference being that he didn’t look in the least bit puppylike. His eyes were narrowed as they swept over her, his face indifferent.
‘Wear something a little more suitable tomorrow, will you?’ he said shortly.
Sam stared at him with what she considered righteous indignation, hoping that it might rid her of this crazy excitement. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard. I’d like you dressed in something more substantial tomorrow.’
She glared at him. She had dressed with care for her first day. Nothing over the top, but she had thought it perfect—a fine-knit dark-caramel-coloured sweater which went well with the dark mahogany of her bobbed hair, slim-fitting black leggings, and short black ankle boots. ‘What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?’
He smiled, but not with his eyes. ‘What are you wearing underneath your sweater?’
‘Wh-at?’
He shrugged. ‘You wanted to know what was wrong with your attire, and I’m about to tell you. It happens to be a perfectly legitimate question.’
And a perfectly redundant one, she thought with mortification as she realised just what he meant, because her nipples were pushing hard and painfully through her flimsy bra against the thin material of her sweater, as visible as if she were freezing cold. Only here, in his studio, she wasn’t the slightest bit cold, which left only one other and highly disturbing reason for their tingling tightness.
Their eyes met in silent acknowledgement of her unwitting response to him, hers smouldering with resentment at this unwelcome power he wielded, his coolly indifferent, as though such a reaction was par for the course, and certainly nothing to get excited about.
This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me, Sam thought desperately, as the colour flared in her cheeks, feeling more vulnerable than she’d done for years, knowing that her face was on the verge of crumpling; and perhaps he saw it, for he made a small terse exclamation of something that sounded like surprise underneath his breath.
‘You know,’ he mocked softly, ‘for a woman who kicks up a storm with strange men in restaurants that’s a pretty good imitation of a little maidenly embarrassment.’
He can think what he likes, she thought fiercely, her confusion vanishing as anger took over. ‘You still haven’t told me why what I’m wearing isn’t suitable.’
He sighed, clearly bored with the conversation. ‘It’s simply that I do a lot more location work than Robin. You’ll be outside a lot more. Those clothes are fine, but not for clambering up ladders and striding across muddy fields. So tomorrow, wear something else. Denim is the most practical. Thick sweaters. Oh, and—’ his eyes skimmed her breasts with lazy amusement ‘—thermal vests might be a good idea, too.’
Why wouldn’t he let up? Did he enjoy baiting all women like this? She couldn’t imagine Gita putting up with such taunts, and in that instant she decided to try her own form of retaliation.
‘I forgot to tell you that Robin said to send his regards. He was saying that he and . . . Gita haven’t seen you for a long time. Not since before you went to America, I believe?’ she asked with innocent interest.
The effect was instant, and his reaction both gratified and sickened her as she saw his mouth tighten into an aggressively arrogant line, a brief and indeterminable light flaring before his eyes slit into dull shards. And, interestingly, a pulse started to throb at the base of his throat. It seemed that, just as hers had done, his body too was now betraying him. He was suppressing it, but there was more emotion written on that harshly handsome face than she’d seen there before. And all inspired by Gita’s name. He’s still in love with her, she thought flatly. And he’s back. No wonder Robin was looking so uneasy.
The dark blue eyes bored into her like steel drills. ‘That’s really nothing to do with you, is it?’ he said in a cutting voice so designed to put her in her place that she flinched. He glanced pointedly at the clock on the wall. ‘Do you think if we’ve dispensed with all the social niceties you could actually get down to doing some work? Or did Robin pay you to just stand around looking decorative?’
What was she doing? Answering him back, stirring up trouble—all designed to put his back up, and why? Just because she was angry with herself for reacting to him so powerfully? Bad start, Sam.
She decided to try to make amends. ‘What would you like me to do, Declan?’
Declan looked as if he could quite happily have strangled her before firing her on the spot, thought Sam unhappily, though she doubted whether he’d be so lacking in circumspection as to leave himself in the lurch without a replacement.
‘We’ve got a shoot this afternoon. You can start by tidying the dark-room and replenishing the solutions. After that you can check the lights and load up my 34mm and 2 and 1/4 sq cameras. And you’d better see whether we need any new backdrops—the rep’s coming this afternoon. And when you’ve done all that you can make yourself some coffee. I’ll be out for most of the morning—I want to check out a location. After that I’m having lunch with the head of an ad agency. I’ll be back after three, in time for the shoot. There’s a whole stack of films in the dark-room which need developing and printing. Any problems—and there shouldn’t be—just ask Michael. Oh, and don’t bother stopping for lunch until you’ve done everything I’ve asked for.’ His face indicated that he thought this highly unlikely, and, with nothing more than a brief nod which bore no courtesy whatsoever, his long-legged frame swung across the studio, and out.
CHAPTER THREE
YES, sir, thought Sam, as she watched Declan slam the door behind him, the pleasant smile fixed to her lips disguising her resentment at the way he had barked out his instructions. Drudge is my middle name.
But she set about the tasks he’d set her like a dervish, determined to redeem herself in his eyes.
Michael arrived a couple of minutes later, stuck his head round the studio door and gave Sam a wide grin. At least here’s someone who’s friendly, she thought, and gave him an answering smile.
He went straight away into his office at the front of the building, where he sat down at the computer and started tapping away, in between what seemed to Sam like the first of a hundred phone calls.
But although Sam worked hard, she scarcely seemed to notice how the time flew by; her thoughts were full of Declan, and the way she seemed to be reacting to him. It was as though all the feelings which she had put on ice as an eighteen-year-old after Bob’s sickening betrayal had come to invade her years later, only the strength of those feelings seemed to be tangibly and shockingly stronger. But she had loved Bob, had been engaged to marry him—and yet she hadn’t experienced anything like this kind of reaction with him.