His Personal Agenda

‘We’ll stick to the back way, I think,’ he said, taking her arm and steering her in via the kitchen. He nodded to the chef and headed for the stairs.

Nyssa stopped abruptly. ‘I thought we were going to have a drink?’ she said.

‘We are. But not in the bar. It’ll be a bit crowded?’ he suggested as her eyebrows hit her hairline.

‘In that case I’ll still need my key,’ she said.

‘I’d wait until things have quietened down a bit,’ he advised, taking his own key from his pocket.

‘But—’

‘People will be looking for you. Your room is the first place they’ll go.’ She still hesitated. ‘They may not all have your best interests at heart,’ he pointed out.

‘I still have my doubts about you,’ she said crossly.

She might suspect that he was connected with Paton, but it was obvious that she wasn’t totally convinced. It was smart of her to be suspicious, but Matt didn’t want her having second thoughts about him now. ‘You can call Gil Paton from my room, if you like,’ he said, hoping to reassure her.

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Your little skirmish will be on the news later. He might worry.’

‘If you’re that concerned you can call him yourself.’ She turned and headed up the stairs without further argument, giving him a great view of the way her dress clung to her figure, the way the skirt swayed seductively about her hips and legs. She stopped abruptly as she reached the top and he narrowly avoided bumping into her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to bump into her. Just that his body had taken enough punishment for one day, both physical and sensual. ‘Well?’ she demanded, when they reached the top of the stairs. ‘Will you call him? Report in? Tell him that he was right? As usual.’

Matt wasn’t sure what was irritating her the most—the fact that her brother-in-law thought she needed a bodyguard, or the fact that he had been proved right.

‘Why would he listen to me? I’ve never met the man. My room’s this way,’ he said, indicating the corridor to the left.

She made a dismissive noise. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

He offered a smile by way of reply. ‘This is it.’ And he slid the key into the lock and held the door open for her. ‘And there’s the phone. Help yourself. See what he says when you thank him for saving you from…’ He stopped. From Parker’s deep, dark dungeon? Was the man desperate enough to take a short cut if he thought he might get away with it?

He’d assumed she was just a pretty face to front the group, but now he’d seen her in action, met her, Matt had no doubt that Nyssa Blake was the driving force behind the campaign to save the cinema.

While there would certainly be a fuss of monumental proportions if she disappeared for any length of time, media attention would shift from the cinema to the hunt for Nyssa, distracting her supporters, leaving them without a leader. And if it could be made to look as if she had been frightened off, had run away…

It shouldn’t be beyond the wit or imagination of Charles Parker to arrange sightings of look-alikes in a variety of glamorous places, fostering resentment and anger among those people who had given their time, their energy, their money to her cause. By the time she reappeared, lost and wandering somewhere, dazed from drugs, or worse, it would all be over.

And if he went to the police with his suspicions what could he tell them? That Parker had given him a wad of money to find out something bad about the girl? Parker would deny it and Matt had no proof. And Nyssa would be the first to admit that the police were not her number one fans. They’d probably be as relieved to see the back of her as the developers.

It occurred to him that the sooner he found something to use against her, something that might at least pressure her into moderating her demands, the better. It wasn’t pleasant, but it could save her from a lot worse.

‘Saving me?’ She glanced back at him, prompting him to go on.

He stared at her for a moment, half believing she could read his mind. Then he realised she was referring to his last half-finished sentence, and he managed a shrug. ‘From whatever those goons had in store. I’ll leave it to your imagination. And while you’re making your call, I’ll get us a drink.’

‘You should clean up your hand first.’

‘My hand will wait. The bathroom is through there if you want to freshen up,’ he said, heading for the minibar and hunkering down to examine its contents.

‘This is a lovely room. Much bigger than mine.’

‘I’m on expenses. Besides, it was all they had left.’

‘Expenses?’

You’ve got a big mouth, Crosby. Or maybe she’d hit him harder than he realised. ‘I’ve got a commission,’ he said. ‘If you want your picture in full glossy colour on a magazine cover, I’m your man.’

There were a couple of brandy miniatures in the fridge. Right at that moment he could have used both of them himself, but he poured them into two glasses, then picked one up and took a mouthful, letting its heat wash slowly over his tongue before he swallowed it. He turned and realised that Nyssa hadn’t moved, but was standing watching him. He picked up the other glass and carried it over to her. She didn’t take it. ‘You really should clean up your hand,’ she insisted.

He tightened his fist to assess the damage. ‘I’ll live.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Nevertheless…’ When he didn’t move, she made an impatient little noise with her tongue, took both glasses from him and set them down on a small table. ‘Come on. I’ll do it for you.’

‘There’s no need, Miss Blake—’

‘Nyssa,’ she said abruptly. Then, ‘I do hope you’re not going to make a fuss. I can’t stand men who make a fuss.’ Before he could deny even thinking of such a thing, she had taken him by the wrist and was leading him firmly towards the bathroom.

‘You’re incredibly bossy for such a little thing,’ he said.

‘Of course I’m bossy.’ And quite suddenly she smiled. Really smiled. ‘How far do you think I’d get if I went around saying “please” and “may I?” and “do you mind?”, all the time?’

‘Not far,’ he muttered, still trying to come down from the effect of her smile, desperately hoping she wouldn’t notice the way his body was responding. It had been touch and go since he’d first set eyes on her. Now, pushed up as tight against the door as he could get, he was still far too close to Nyssa Blake as she filled the sink with warm water, and the long, pale curve of her neck was an invitation to a soft caress…

‘Take your jacket off.’

‘Bossy,’ he said, but his voice caught a little in his throat and he turned away to peel off his denim jacket. She took it from him and hung it behind the door. Then he swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling as she took his hand between hers and submerged it in the warm water.

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.

‘Like hell,’ he said, because that was what she expected. He wished it did, at least it might distract his rampaging libido long enough for him to get it back under control. But the stinging was easily counteracted by the gentle touch of her fingers. Matt had the feeling that he could undergo major surgery without anaesthetic if Nyssa Blake held his hand.

‘There, that should do it.’ She pulled the plug and the water ran away. She pulled a small towel from the rack and gently dried his hand and fingers, dabbing away a tiny ooze of blood that seeped from a graze.

He could have stayed there all night while she did it. Not a good idea. The bathroom was too small and she was too close.

‘Thanks,’ Matt said, somewhat abruptly. ‘That’ll do it.’ He pulled the door open and headed swiftly in the direction of his brandy, draining it in one swallow.

‘Does it hurt that much?’

‘What?’ He turned to find Nyssa watching him with a slightly perplexed frown creasing her smooth forehead. God, he was handling this badly. ‘Oh. No. It’s fine now. You’ve got the gentle touch.’

‘Yes, well, you get used to dealing with cuts and abrasions when you’re in this business. Security guards aren’t too bothered about where they put their bolt-cutters when you’ve chained yourself to a bulldozer.’

‘I didn’t think you got involved in anything like that.’

‘When needs must,’ she said, with a careless shrug.

He barely stopped himself from saying something stupid, something patronising along the lines of How did a delicate little creature like you get involved in something like this? She might look fragile, but he was still feeling the kicks she had given him. Patronising might just get him another one. And this time he would deserve it.

‘Are you planning on chaining yourself to the front door of the cinema?’

She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘That depends on Mr Parker.’ Then, as if to demonstrate that was all she was prepared to say on the subject, she turned and picked up the brandy he had poured for her. She sipped it, then pulled a face and handed it to him. ‘I knew there was a reason I didn’t drink. Here, I think you need this more than I do. Can I make myself a cup of tea?’

‘Help yourself,’ he invited, and she moved across the room to the kettle, busying herself with a cup and a teabag while she waited for it to boil. ‘There are some biscuits in my bag if you’re hungry.’

‘Biscuits?’

‘Chocolate ones. You never know when you’re going to have to miss out on the canapés…’

‘Feel free to go back and help yourself, Crosby,’ she said irritably. ‘I’d hate you to miss out on a free beanfeast.’

He remembered the twenty pounds he’d donated. Hardly free, but he let it pass. ‘You think there’ll be anything left? I imagine the rent-a-mob crowd will have taken the booze and trashed the food.’ Nyssa Blake swore, briefly but comprehensively. ‘Is that the kind of language that they taught you at the school for young ladies you went to?’ he asked. ‘The Sacred Heart, wasn’t it?’ She stared at him. ‘You see, Nyssa, I’ve done my homework on you.’

‘You mean you really are a journalist?’

‘One with a scoop,’ he replied, avoiding the direct lie this time. It was a bit late, but he was doing his best.

‘Oh, sure,’ she said as the kettle boiled. ‘Big story.’ She dropped a teabag into a cup and filled it with water. ‘Nyssa Blake had a cup of tea in my bedroom after a scuffle at the Assembly Rooms. I offered her a biscuit—no, wait—’ she held up a small hand for attention ‘—a chocolate biscuit, but she declined. She drank her tea and left shortly afterwards.’

Matt laughed. ‘You’d better stick to bulldozer-bashing, Nyssa, if that’s the best you can do with this story. You’ll certainly never make a journalist.’

‘I have no wish to be a journalist.’

‘You planned to read English at university,’ he pointed out.

‘Yes, well, there’s not much future in that.’ She discarded the teabag and after a tussle with a tub of milk finally managed to open it and pour it into her tea. Then, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, she said, ‘Okay, so tell me, how would a big freelance journalist like you handle the story?’

She said that as if she still didn’t buy the journalist bit, but Matt, leaving the armchair for Nyssa, ignored the disbelief in her voice and stretched out on the bed. ‘Broadsheet or tabloid?’

‘Oh, let’s go for broke. Give me tabloid.’

He grinned and sipped thoughtfully at the brandy for a moment. ‘How about this. “Tonight, before a room packed with journalists, a daring attempt was made to kidnap Nyssa Blake. The dazzling redhead—”’ Nyssa snorted “‘—the dazzling redhead, twenty-two-year-old stepdaughter of millionaire businessman James Lambert, was grabbed on the point of launching her campaign to stop the destruction of the art deco Gaumont Cinema. Opened in Delvering in 1931 by home-grown silent screen star Doris Catchpole—’” Nyssa reprised the snort, except that this time it came closer to a giggle “‘—the Gaumont is due to be demolished by developers and replaced by a supermarket.’” He took another sip of the brandy. “‘The meeting had only just started when, as the lights dimmed for a slide presentation, the projector was overturned and smashed and Miss Blake was grabbed by an unknown assailant. Matt Crosby, thirty-four, freelance journalist, fought off her attacker and in the confusion carried Miss Blake to safety. Later, comforted by her rescuer in the safety of his hotel bedroom—’”

‘Oh, right, I get it—’

“‘—his hotel bedroom,’” Matt continued firmly, “‘Miss Blake bathed Mr Crosby’s injuries and wept, devastated by what had happened—’”

‘Stop it, Matt Crosby, journalist, aged thirty-four. That’s quite enough.’

‘You didn’t like it?’

‘I’d have to give you an E for effort, I suppose—’

‘Only an E?’

‘That’s all you deserve. You used far too many long sentences for the tabloids. But you’re clearly quite twisted enough to be a journalist. It would definitely be a U for accuracy.’

‘A U?’ he queried.

‘Ungraded.’

‘It’s nothing but the unvarnished truth,’ he protested.

‘Really? What about the fictitious Doris Catchpole?’ she demanded. ‘And when did I weep or say I was devastated by what happened this evening?’

‘Oh, that. Just a little poetic licence.’ He grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want me printing what you actually did say, would you? Not that a family newspaper would actually print the words, just the first letter and then some asterisks, but the great reading public would get the general idea…’

‘I’ll bet they would.’ She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘I don’t think I like you very much, Matt Crosby.’

‘It’s just a job, Nyssa. It’s nothing personal.’ He offered her the brandy glass. ‘Changed your mind about that drink?’

‘Yes. And the interview.’ She abandoned her tea and headed for the door. ‘I can’t say that it’s been nice knowing you…it hasn’t.’ She swept into the tiny vestibule and out of sight. He heard her flip the latch. Then, ‘Oh, hell!’

‘What’s up?’ he asked as she retreated back into his room.

‘There’s a crowd of journalists camped outside my bedroom door.’

‘In a hotel of this quality? I’m shocked.’

Nyssa glared at him. He was having considerable difficulty in keeping a straight face, she realised. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘You think it’s funny.’

He didn’t deny it. ‘But not entirely unexpected. In fact I seem to remember warning you that it was likely. Of course,’ he said, more soberly, ‘there’s always the possibility that not all of them are journalists. Did they see you?’

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