Sweet Madness

Was it because over the years she had built up Declan in her mind as such a hero that she found it impossible to look on him as a mere mortal? Or could the reason be far more prosaic, that her feelings for Declan were nothing more than a very potent chemical reaction to a highly attractive man? Either way she had to get a grip on herself. It would be disastrous if Declan guessed her feelings, after all he’d said at the interview about emotional women.

Shortly before three, she was just finishing sweeping the studio floor when Michael stuck his head round the door, his eyes smiling from behind his John Lennon spectacles.

‘Come and have some late lunch?’ he suggested.

Well, she had completed the work Declan had set her, and it had been a long time since the piece of toast she’d eaten on the run first thing. She smiled. ‘Thanks. That would be lovely.’

‘Come through to the office. I still have to man the phone.’

Michael had made a pot of real coffee and a plate of cheese sandwiches. Sam took one and perched on the end of his desk before biting into it hungrily.

‘Thanks. Declan gave me so much work that I didn’t think I’d get any lunch.’

Michael laughed. ‘He’s just testing you.’

‘And some!’

‘Oh, his bark’s much worse than his bite—don’t take too much notice of Declan.’

Which was a little like telling her to ignore a cyclone in full swing. She suspected that Michael, as a man, would be immune to Declan with all his charm—all she needed to do was to try and build up the same kind of immunity. She looked at Michael curiously, and, catching her expression, he shrugged good-naturedly.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Ask me.’

‘Ask you what?’

‘Why I’m working here.’

‘It is rather an unusual job for a man to have,’ she conceded.

‘I love it,’ said Michael simply. ‘Speaking as a person who can’t photograph a block of wood without messing it up, working for Declan allows me to indulge my love of photography vicariously. It’s an exciting world he moves in, you know.’

‘I can imagine. But—’ she frowned and picked up another sandwich ‘—aren’t you stuck in a—you know—rut?’

He shook his head. ‘Declan pays me handsomely, and I am that rare breed—a man without ambition.’

Sam stared at him. ‘Seriously?’

He nodded. ‘Seriously. When I go home at night, I like to do just that. Switch off completely. If I were in some corporate hierarchy, I’d have to be back-stabbing with the rest of them. Late meetings, living on my nerves. No, thanks. I like to sit sedately on the sidelines.’

He pulled a demure face and Sam giggled. She felt safe with Michael—he didn’t send her thoughts and senses into crazy turmoil. She tipped her head to one side, crossed her legs, and batted her eyelashes outrageously. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Michael, but you’d make someone a great wife!’

He adopted an America drawl. ‘Say—is that a proposal, honey?’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ came a deep, cold voice from the door, and Sam looked up to find Declan standing in the doorway, filling it with his muscular frame, his mouth a thin line of disapproval.

Sam felt like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, frozen in a ridiculous pose on Michael’s desk like some flighty femme fatale. She uncrossed her legs and quickly stood up, her pulse again infuriating her by accelerating into its familiar dance as she stared up into that harshly handsome face and waited for the seemingly inevitable rebuke.

Michael, for one, seemed unconcerned. ‘Hello, Declan,’ he said. ‘Will you ring Fran at home before four?’

Declan was still looking at Sam acidly. ‘I thought I’d left you with enough work until I got back?’

She felt a warm glow of achievement. ‘I’ve done it, actually,’ she said sweetly.

He said nothing, but turned to Michael. ‘I’d steer clear of Sam, if I were you—socially, I suspect she’s a little wild for your taste, Mike.’ He gave a nasty smile. ‘Come through to the studio, will you, Sam?’

Still smarting from his last barb, Sam followed him, her eyes drawn unwillingly to the swing of the lean hips, and the line of the long, muscular legs covered by the clinging denim.

Once there, he cast his eye around at the immaculately tidy studio, and Sam met his gaze with triumphant challenge.

‘Everything to your satisfaction—Declan?’

‘Almost. I think we’ve established that your work is up to standard, so just let me give you a little word of warning about Michael.’

‘Michael?’ She found his steely look of disapproval inexplicable, and attempted to lighten the tension. ‘He’s a mass-murderer, right?’

There wasn’t a flicker of answering humour. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Sam, shall we? Michael is a very pleasant, easygoing man, but he isn’t your type and, what’s more, he has a loyal fiancée who adores him waiting for him at home.’

It would be almost laughable, thought Sam, except that he wasn’t laughing. ‘Just what are you suggesting——?’

‘I’m suggesting,’ he bit out, ‘that you don’t turn that big-brown-eyed look on him as though he’s just personally delivered the Holy Grail to you. Stick to the bread-roll-throwing types you normally hang around with. Oh——’ and here his eyes became as stormy as the Atlantic Ocean ‘—do me one small favour, hmm? We know you’re tiny, but you’ve proved you certainly aren’t fragile, so do spare me that helpless-little-girl look when I speak to you. You’re twenty-six, not eighteen.’

Pride made her meet his gaze without showing one iota of the hurt which clamped at her stomach at his needlessly cruel words. And, what was more, he was so unjustly wrong—about her, and about her supposed designs on Michael.

Determined that he shouldn’t see how he had the power to wound her, she deliberately composed her face into an expression of mild concern. ‘Shall I fetch you some Alka-Seltzer, Declan?’ she asked in a honeyed voice.

He stared at her as though she’d had a brainstorm. ‘What in hell’s name are you on about?’

She raised her hands up in supplication. ‘You seem out of sorts, that’s all,’ she replied, in a tone which was undisguised saccharin. ‘I thought maybe that you might have indigestion—after your lunch.’

Their eyes met, and for a moment she thought that he was about to explode, when to her astonishment something which could almost have been humour curved one corner of his mouth into a tantalisingly crooked smile, but it was gone so quickly that she thought it was probably her own wish-fulfilment. Declan didn’t smile; he snarled.

‘Let’s light the studio,’ he snapped. ‘The model arrives in ten minutes.’

And that battle appears to be over, thought Sam, as she set about assisting him.

They were shooting a costly diamond necklace for a leading diamond merchant’s advertisement, and the model arrived along with a security guard who was carrying the jewellery, the art director of the advertising agency which was producing the advert, and an executive from the company which cut the gems. Sam made everyone coffee.

The model was called Nicki, a breathtakingly lovely creature of just seventeen, and Sam recognised that she had that indefinable quality about her which spelt stardom. She had the classic model combination of extreme height—most of it in her legs—waist-length curls, pouty lips and superb bone-structure. She made Sam feel like one of the seven dwarfs.

Determined to put Declan and her personal animosities aside, Sam set about making herself useful, rearranging light reflectors and positioning the wind machine which would make Nicki’s glorious golden curls billow magnificently.

But Nicki was new to the business, and perhaps she was intimidated by Declan’s reputation, because she was nervous as hell, Sam quickly realised, and her facial expressions became accordingly wooden. Sam sensed the assembled group holding their breath in anticipation, because they all knew that the success of the shoot depended on the model, and if she was unable to relax and Declan couldn’t get the pictures he wanted then the whole shot would have to be rescheduled using a new model, both costly and time-consuming.

Declan looked up from his camera, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, and smiled. It was, thought Sam, a lethal and devastating combination. All that blatant masculinity coupled with blue eyes which could have melted ice. He smiled at Nicki.

‘Is this your first job?’

His tone was nothing but kind and interested and perhaps the girl had been expecting censure, thought Sam, for she visibly relaxed in the sunshine of Declan’s charm.

‘My second, actually.’

He smiled again. ‘You’re doing well. This advert is going to appear in Vogue. Not bad for a second job.’ He cupped his hands over an imaginary crystal ball and bent over it. ‘I see great things ahead,’ he intoned, in a trance-like voice, and Nicki giggled.

The chat continued, and Sam watched, fascinated, as he managed to wrest from her the rather astonishing fact that she was a keen gardener, and he even kept an intensely interested face when she proceeded to tell him all about the caterpillars which were attacking her camellia leaves! And he wasn’t even flirting, Sam realised; he was far too clever and experienced to do that. In fact, Nicki herself was blooming because he was doing what probably no man had done since her youthful beauty had developed—he was treating her as an intelligent person, and not as a sex-object.

Seconds later he said to her, very casually, ‘Right, are we ready to go?’

Nicki nodded, her eyes shining with hero-worship. You and me both, thought Sam regretfully. He doesn’t even have to try. No wonder he’s so arrogant.

He went back to the camera and began to focus in on the girl’s face, while the dazzling diamonds sparked ice-fire at her neck. Sam knew without looking at any contact sheets that the pictures would be a masterpiece.

At six he said, ‘It’s a wrap.’ And the jewels were packed away, the art director and the executive and Nicki all took their leave, all supremely satisfied with the day’s work.

Sam cleared the studio, and when she’d finished she found Declan in the outer office, Michael long gone, leaning over the desk, lost in thought, silhouetted against the fading light.

As she stood silently behind him on the deep-pile carpet of the office, she thought that she had never seen someone standing quite so still. Was that a life-saving skill he’d learnt out in the East, while the battles raged all around him?

Sam stood for a moment studying him, a great rush of unwilling admiration washing over her as she imagined him remembering those days of trial and tribulation. Was he regretting them now, glad of the safety of his new world? Or did he miss the adrenalin coursing through his veins, the kind of feeling which no jewellery shoot—no matter how prestigious—could ever inspire?

And then her foolish imaginings disintegrated as her eyes were drawn to the focus of his attention. Lying to one side of the desk was a large buff-coloured envelope—the hard-backed kind used to send photos. It was marked ‘confidential’, and Michael had obviously left it for Declan to open.

But it was the content of the envelope which filled her mouth with a bitter taste. It was a large portrait-shot of Gita.

Misty and provocative, she gazed lovingly at the camera. And even from where she stood, Sam could see some message scrawled in the corner, followed by a long line of kisses. She drew in a breath and he turned round instantly, before she had a chance to disguise the distaste on her face. What was Gita doing sending him signed photos with loving messages? Were her suspicions founded in fact?

She saw his eyes harden like chips of sapphire. He looked angry, as watchful as a cat. ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

It was an abrupt, forbidding tone, and she wondered if it was provoked by his guilt at coveting another man’s wife.

‘What is it?’ he repeated. ‘Do you always make a habit of sneaking up behind people like that?’

‘I didn’t “sneak up”—you just seemed very lost in thought,’ she retorted, and she knew that her voice contained a quiet accusation, because his mouth twisted with rage.

They stood staring at one another, Sam rooted to the spot. There had been an intensity to the brief exchange which seemed to spark off something in him. Something very raw and basic. He was very angry—with her? Or with Gita? But suddenly all his outward sophistication fell away. She saw the man beneath, who had lain in insect-ridden, sweaty jungles, getting shot at. His very maleness seemed to emanate from him in waves which were almost tangible, and she knew such terror and excitement that she took an unconscious step away from him. He saw the movement, and with lightning speed clamped his hand about her wrist and brought her up against him, so close that she could feel every tensed muscle like solid steel pressing against her soft curves.

The impact of his touch was explosive; she felt her body spring into instant clamouring response—as though he had somehow managed to place an electric charge deep inside her.

She stared up at him, both bewitched and petrified, and she saw his lips curve into a smile which was nothing whatsoever to do with happiness.

‘Don’t look so surprised,’ he mocked softly. ‘You must know by now what it does to a man when you gaze up at him with those big brown eyes. Like Bambi,’ he mused, ‘only not so innocent,’ and he drew one thoughtful finger slowly down a cheek that she knew was drained of all blood. And that single contact, innocuous though it was, caused her insides to melt like butter on a hot day, and a shiver turned the skin beneath her clothes into icy goose-bumps. She was speechless and spellbound as she stared at him helplessly. She had never dreamed, never, that a man could make you feel like this. To feel so much, from so little . . .

He laughed then, almost ruthlessly, and let her go, turning to pick up the photo, sliding it back smoothly into its envelope, Gita’s exquisite face mocking her as he did so.

Ignore it, she thought. Act flip—that’s what he’d expect of you. Pretend it was nothing. Nothing. ‘Will you be needing me for anything else tonight?’ she asked coolly.

He gave her a quizzical look. ‘In view of what just happened, I’d advise you to make your questions a little less ambiguous in future—a man could get quite the wrong idea.’ He made for the door, then paused. ‘As a matter of fact, I do—will you get those films developed tonight, before you go? Or is there a man waiting?’

If only he knew—and if he knew he’d never believe it in a million years. Let him think what he liked—anything rather than have him harbour fears that she had no life of her own, that he was going to become the main feature in it. She gave a little shrug. ‘Kind of,’ she prevaricated.

‘Well, make sure he doesn’t keep you out all night—we’re out on location tomorrow, and it’s an early start. We have to be in Sussex by eight, so I’ll pick you up at six.’

Her brain must still be fuddled from that embrace, else why would she be stuttering out scarcely coherent replies? ‘You mean—from my flat?’

His mouth twisted. ‘Unless you’ll be staying somewhere else?’

The implication was clear, and she shook her head, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘I’ll be at home.’ Her voice was chilly.

He had his hand on the door-handle. ‘Well—don’t forget to lock up. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ Sam’s stomach was churning as she took the film into the dark-room. What in heaven’s name was happening to her? She snapped the light off and, by touch alone, wound the films on to their metal spirals and plunged them into developing fluid.

Her heart was racing like a piston. It was sexual attraction, nothing more, and she was going to have to hide it. Nothing had happened, and nothing would.

But her heart continued to race as she thought of tomorrow. Of a long drive to Sussex. Alone in the car with Declan.

CHAPTER FOUR

BY THE time Sam had finished at the studio, it was getting on for eight, and she had to dash like mad to get over to the youth club where she had been helping out on a weekly basis ever since she’d first arrived in London, almost eight years ago.

The club was in a dingy part of the city where the houses were small, grey and narrow, piled on top of one another with back-yards the size of pocket handkerchiefs. Her flat in Knightsbridge seemed almost palatial in comparison to the overcrowded tower blocks here, and had caused her a pang of guilt on more than one occasion.

Sam pushed open the door of the youth centre, to find that John had already arrived.

‘Hi,’ he smiled. ‘How was your first day?’

She smiled back, pleased that he’d remembered. ‘Don’t ask.’

‘That bad, huh?’

‘I suppose there’s a price to pay for being a genius,’ she observed.

‘The genius being Declan Hunt?’

‘You’ve got it in one!’ She began to fill the giant urn with water.

‘And the price is?’

‘That he’s impossible!’

‘You should work well together, then!’

‘John!’ Sam aimed a tea-cloth at his head which he caught perfectly. ‘I am not impossible!’

‘Of course not, Sam!’

She watched him begin to fill jugs with orange and lemon squash.

Dear John. He’d been her closest friend since she’d arrived in London, still smarting with hurt and trying to get used to the fact that she wasn’t going to be Bob’s bride after all, that Charlotte had stepped in and taken over that particular role.

Angry, confused and alone, she had met John at a bus-stop near the Albert Hall in the driving rain. They had both been to the same Schumann concert and they had shared their views on the pianist over a cup of coffee which had extended into a supper of pasta, eating in John’s book-filled but untidy flat.

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