The rebel and the artist

When Georgette Bainbridge first meets world-famous photographer Lukas Karel, it’s not sparks that fly but bags of flour! Feisty Georgette is staging a protest at the beauty pageant Lukas is judging — he might be gorgeous, but if he’s a chauvinist, then getting covered in flour is the least that he deserves!

Georgette might be proud of her aim, but it makes working with Lukas on an African photoshoot very awkward. Especially when she realizes he’s nothing like the man she imagined — in fact, he’s totally irresistible! And that’s before he kisses her…

An Image of You
Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

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

‘Lukas?’ Georgette Bainbridge felt her mouth go dry at her father’s suggestion. ‘You want me to work for Lukas!’ The day which had begun so badly suddenly became a disaster. ‘You can’t mean it!’ But one look at his face confirmed that he did.

Sir Charles Bainbridge threw the morning paper across the desk at his youngest daughter, who stood facing him with clenched hands and a mutinous expression. ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. It’s time you stopped making a nuisance of yourself and a fool of me.’ George didn’t need to look at the newspaper. She had the most vivid recollection of the incident, and could still almost feel the imprint of the policeman’s hand as he had manhandled her out of the road and into a van. And the reality of bruised ribs from thugs who had caused the near-riot. Angrily her father jabbed at the paper. ‘I’ve come to the end of my patience with you.’

‘The end of your patience …’ she spluttered. ‘Have you any idea … any idea … up here in your …’ she glared around at the opulent office ‘… ivory tower …’ she brushed away his exclamation of rage ‘… just what is going on down there?’ She pointed dramatically at the window.

Her father’s voice was icy. ‘I have a great deal more idea than you do what is going on in this world. Tell me what your demonstrations do!’ he challenged. ‘Have you found one abused child a home? Have you, to your knowledge, saved one single whale?’ he demanded. ‘Have you provided one homeless family with somewhere to live?’

‘Yes …’

‘I exclude the army of people you seem to have installed in your own house!’ George opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. A row with her father wouldn’t solve the far more immediate problem: to convince him that she couldn’t possibly go and work for a man like Lukas. But she wasn’t given the opportunity. ‘Well? Have you no answer? It’s unusual to find you lost for words, George.’

Shaken by his attack and tired from the night spent in a police cell, George subsided into the chair in front of his desk and let her eyes drop to the front-page headline: MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER ARRESTED AT DEMONSTRATION.

She sighed. It had been a peaceful march until a bunch of louts had started jeering and pushing them about. Her first reaction had been to reach for her camera, but they had seized it and smashed it, and she had struck out in blind fury. It was so unfair.

‘They broke my camera,’ she said, with a surge of unaccustomed self-pity.

‘I hope it was insured.’ Her father’s wry comment gave her pause. She hadn’t expected him to be pleased with her. But it wasn’t like him to be so angry. He was mostly amused by the scrapes she got into in pursuit of one cause or another.

She tried to rouse him to her side. ‘That’s not the point, Pa. Those bullies broke up a peaceful demonstration for no better reason than they thought it would be a bit of a lark …’

‘Enough!’ Her father was rarely roused to serious anger, but clearly this time he was not to be cajoled. She stopped. ‘Thank you, Georgette.’

George cringed. If her father had stooped to calling her by that name she was in deep trouble. ‘I’m sorry.’

Her father’s smile caught her unawares. ‘Of course you are. You are always sorry, George.’ He stood up and walked across his opulent office to the wide windows looking out across the river. He recognised a certain truth in George’s accusation that his office was an ‘ivory tower’, but he wasn’t as cut off as she thought. He steeled himself to an unpleasant task, straightened his shoulders and turned to face her. ‘I’ve lost count of the times you have come to me and said you were “sorry”. You were sorry when you were expelled from boarding-school. Why was that, now?’

‘Kittens. The gardener was going to drown the kittens,’ she reminded him.

‘Oh, yes, kittens.’ The voice was heavy with irony. ‘However could I have forgotten the kittens? You held a protest. Hung a banner across the school gates, set up a picket-line. Quite remarkable powers of organisation for a girl of thirteen.’ He shook his head. ‘What a waste. You could have been a captain of industry by now.’

George felt a bubble of indignation rising in her throat. ‘There was no need to drown the poor little things. If they hadn’t wanted her to have kittens she should have been spayed. Anyway, it would all have been a storm in a teacup if Heather James hadn’t telephoned the Sun.’

‘Your first headline. Tell me, do you keep a scrapbook?’ George thought she caught a glimpse of a smile.

‘No.’ She shook her head.

‘A pity. It would doubtless make entertaining reading.’ He paused, frowning. ‘If I were not your father.’ She remained silent, hoping that he had finished. He hadn’t. ‘You were sorry when you were thrown out of art college. I was sorry about that too. They might have let you take your finals.’

‘I finished the course,’ she said defensively. ‘Examinations are an archaic form of assessment.’

‘Perhaps. You have great talent, George, and if you had had your “archaic” piece of paper you might have developed it instead of spending your time with a bunch of …’

‘They are my friends,’ she defended them hotly.

‘Hmm. Well, they are not the reason for this chat.’ He paused. ‘Are you aware that the cost of running that little house of yours in Paddington is almost as much as Odney Place?’

George winced. Her family home had twenty rooms and a staff of five. ‘I feed a lot of people,’ she said, defensively.

‘What on? Smoked salmon?’ He suddenly thumped the desk, making her jump. ‘You are twenty-two years old, George. Time enough to have learnt that you cannot personally take on the troubles of the world.’ He backed off, seemingly embarrassed by his outburst. ‘I’m sorry. But you can’t. As for this latest plan of yours, wanting to break into your capital to build a refuge for the homeless …’

She stared at him. ‘How do you know …?’ Then she brushed that aside as unimportant. ‘I can do something, Pa. While you sit up here making money there are children begging on the streets!’

He sighed. ‘There’s a lot that’s wrong with the world, George. But you’ll never beat the system like that!’ He waved his hand at the newspaper that lay on the desk between them. ‘Have you no shame? Dear God, it was bad enough that you were arrested, but why on earth didn’t you telephone? You didn’t have to spend the night in gaol.’

‘Would you have bailed out the others?’ Her father didn’t answer and she shrugged. ‘I didn’t think so.’ George was tired and dirty. She was in desperate need of a bath to wash away the pervasive police-station smell of disinfectant that clung to her clothes.

She stood up and went over to him, taking his hand. ‘Come on, Pa. It’s not that bad.’ There was a special smile that had never before failed her. But her father’s eyes met hers blankly, refusing to respond.

‘Not everyone has had your advantages, George. Some people have to go to work every day whether they want to or not. They don’t have the luxury of a private income.’ His eyes slid over her dishevelled appearance and he shook his head. ‘Not that anyone would know. Why can’t you be more like your sisters …?’

George snorted. ‘All tweeds and babies and dogs?’ She caught her father’s expression and held up her hands in mock defence. ‘I know. I know. I don’t appreciate you all, or how lucky I am …’

‘Well, perhaps you can learn to. I have stopped your credit cards from today. And your bank account.’

There was a moment of stillness between them. George’s thick dark brows drew together as she tried to take in what her father had said. ‘How can you do that?’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t do that …’ She pushed back long strands of hair that had escaped from her unhappy attempt at a French plait.

‘It seems that I can. I have deemed that you are no longer …’ He paused, seeming to choose his words with care. ‘No longer a fit and responsible person. I hope that it is a temporary aberration.’

‘You can’t do that!’ She took in the implacable expression on her father’s face, and her outrage turned to concern. ‘I’ve bills to pay, responsibilities …’

‘Bills will be paid under my signature.’ He looked up. ‘Your “responsibilities” are living rent free. They will, for the moment, have to provide their own food.’ Sir Charles opened the folder in front of him. ‘You are more fortunate than most. I have, as I said, already arranged a job for you.’ He looked up. ‘I’m afraid it is only temporary as assistant to Lukas on a location shoot. But then beggars can’t be choosers. Perhaps in Africa you will learn that there is worse to contend with than the welfare state.’

George sat down opposite her father and prepared at least to make a show of listening while she tried desperately to think of some way out of her predicament. One thing was certain—and her fingers strayed absently to her lips—there was no way that she could work with Lukas.

‘Now, George.’ Her father reclaimed her attention. She recognised the tone of voice. It was the one he reserved for particularly tiresome puppies. ‘Your plane leaves tonight. A room has been booked for you at the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi …’

‘Nairobi?’ Her heart skipped a beat in sudden excitement.

‘Mr Lukas will pick you up as soon as he can.’

His name brought her rudely back to earth. She shook her head. ‘No. It’s no good, Pa. Not Lukas. I can’t work with him.’

‘I don’t remember offering you a choice, George.’ Her father’s eyes narrowed. ‘I take it from all these protestations that you have already met the gentleman.’

‘Gentleman!’ That was the last thing she’d call him. And of course she’d met him. They had once had a memorable close encounter. One that she would heartily like to forget. There was nothing for it but to throw herself on her father’s mercy. ‘Please don’t do this to me. I can’t go! He’s …’

‘Yes?’ Sir Charles waited.

She took a deep breath. ‘I threw a bag of flour at him when he was judging an international beauty contest.’

Her father’s laughter was genuine. ‘I don’t remember being asked to bail you out,’ he prompted.

‘He didn’t press charges.’ George refused to look her father in the eye. Lukas had dealt with her personally. Very personally.

Sir Charles Bainbridge looked at his daughter with interest. ‘You’d better hope he doesn’t remember the incident as clearly as you obviously do.’

She remembered. And she was sure he would. She felt hot tears of humiliation welling up behind her lids. Why couldn’t he see that it was impossible for her? ‘He’s a dreadful man. Really. I won’t go. I absolutely refuse.’

‘Totally beyond the pale without a doubt. But a very fine photographer nevertheless. I am sure you can learn a great deal from him.’ Her father came round the desk and leaned against it. ‘This job will be a complete break from all this nonsense you’ve become involved in. Go willingly, George. And when you return, if you have done well …’ he raised a hand to prevent her interruption ‘… I will be prepared to discuss your plans for a refuge.’

‘Why?’ she interrupted. ‘Why now?’

Charles Bainbridge considered his favourite daughter. She was so like her mother, that high sense of justice. He sighed. ‘You need a focus. You racket around endorsing any cause that takes your heart.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s a good heart, I don’t deny it, but you’re wasting yourself. Burning up your energy in too many directions at once.’

George saw a chink of light and dived in, sitting forward eagerly. ‘But I could start right away. If you’ll help I’ll stay away from protest marches, I promise.’ She smiled winningly.

‘George!’ She subsided back into the chair and shrugged. It had been worth a try. But her father had continued. ‘I am asking you to do something for me. Something you’re good at. Try and think of me as a deserving cause; that should help.’ He too had a special smile to help him get his way. ‘It’s surely not much to ask in return for that.’ He waved at the newspaper. ‘Just do a good job for Lukas.’ He tried to turn his order into a joke. ‘Or he may refuse to work for me again. And that would make me very cross indeed.’ He held out a folder containing her ticket. ‘There are a few traveller’s cheques with your ticket. Pocket money, that’s all.’

She ignored the folder. ‘And if I refuse to go?’

Her father shrugged, the smile gone. ‘You had better hope that your friends are as generous to you as you have been to them.’

‘I see. Cut off without a penny. Oh, well. I suppose there’s always the DSS.’

Her father’s eyes hardened. ‘Don’t you think they have enough calls on their resources already?’

George defied him for a long moment, then gave way before his determined look. ‘You’ll really help with the refuge?’

‘You have my promise,’ he assured her.

She took a deep breath. Her father’s support would mean the difference between success and failure—a far more important consideration than her embarrassing encounter with Lukas. ‘I’d better get going, then.’ She picked up the folder, turned, hefted her battered leather sack over her shoulder, and walked briskly to the door where she paused and turned. ‘And I am sorry about that. Truly.’ She pointed to the newspaper.

‘Keep Lukas happy and you’re forgiven.’ He smiled. ‘Good luck.’

I’ve a feeling I’m going to need that, George thought as she closed the door. Keeping him ‘happy’ might not be that easy.

Her father’s secretary handed her a longed-for cup of coffee. ‘These are tablets to take against malaria, George. You should have been taking them for a couple of weeks, but follow the instructions on the bottle.’

‘Thanks, Bishop. But it’s not the mosquitoes I’m worried about.’

Miss Bishop laughed. ‘You mustn’t worry about Lukas, George. He is so charming. Not a bit the way they write about him in the papers.’

‘Really?’ George raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought it was his “charm” they concentrated on.’

Miss Bishop bridled. ‘You know that you can’t believe what you read in the papers.’ She saw George’s expression and had the grace to blush. ‘Well, not everything. When Lukas telexed this morning for a replacement for Michael, I said to Sir Charles that it was just the thing …’ Her voice trailed off as she realised that she had given herself away.

‘You suggested this? Oh, Bishop, I thought you were my friend.’ She took the bottle of tablets. ‘Why does he need a replacement?’

‘He didn’t go into details, it was just a short telex. But the poor young man who went out with him is in the hospital. Now I’ve bought you some sun-block creams and insect repellents. I didn’t think you’d have much time. Is there anything else I can get you?’

George smiled. ‘A new camera. Those beasts smashed mine yesterday.’

Her father’s secretary looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure that I’m allowed … your father was most insistent …’

‘It’s covered by insurance. You can handle the claim for me, can’t you? Dear Bishop? Please? I can’t go to Africa without a camera.’

Miss Bishop relented. ‘No, I suppose not. And if it’s insured I’m not giving you cash, am I?’ Having talked herself into helping, she handed George a notepad. ‘Write down what you want. Henry can get it for you and he’ll bring it when he picks you up to take you to the airport tonight.’

‘Bless you. I shall need some film, too.’ She startled the older woman with a hug. ‘Here you are.’ She quickly scribbled down the make and model. ‘And some of these notebooks and pencils?’

Miss Bishop sighed. ‘I’ll send them with Henry. He’s waiting to take you home now.’

‘You’re a brick!’

Once home—the little house in the back streets near Paddington Station she had bought a few months earlier—George let the bright mask slip. The place was a tip. The kitchen was full of her recent cell mates. They had eaten, and the debris littered every surface. George squeezed over to the fridge and as she expected there was nothing. Just an empty milk bottle. She wondered, not for the first time, if any of them had ever washed a plate in their lives, or gave a thought to where the food they ate came from. She sighed. If she had to squat in a condemned house, or live in a cardboard box, she probably wouldn’t put washing-up very high on her list of activities either.

‘Could someone get a pint of milk, please?’ she asked as calmly as she could. She was ignored until she offered a note, then someone slid from a chair, pocketed the proffered cash and disappeared. She hoped he would come back with some milk. Change would be too much to expect.

She was so tired. They had spent the night singing protest songs, high on the adrenalin of arrest. But there was no time to sleep now. She would have to do that on the plane.

George unlocked her bedroom door. She wasn’t quite as gullible as her father seemed to believe, she thought grimly. Her room was her refuge, inviolate, pristine, untouched by whatever disorder took over the rest of the house.

She stared for a moment in horror as she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Quickly she stripped off her clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. It was fierce and reviving and afterwards she wrapped her hair in a towel, slipped into a wrap and went to examine her wardrobe, wondering just what would be appropriate for two weeks working in East Africa.

Her hand fell on the skirt she had worn to the beauty contest demonstration. A group of them had got in with tickets, pretending to be genuine spectators, and they wanted to look as if they belonged. They had decided on the role of models, hoping to attract attention. George had made the effort to look as stunning as possible, had secretly enjoyed it. She had worn a short black suede skirt and matching knee-high boots and she’d bought a cream silk shirt especially for the occasion. Then, because she was a perfectionist, even in the art of protesting, she had paid an unaccustomed visit to a hair salon, leaving after what seemed like hours, with her long hair a sleek gold curve over her shoulder. The final touch had been a professional make-up session. ‘I want to look sexy,’ she had told the girl tentatively, and she had been slightly shocked by the woman who had looked back from her mirror. Her violet eyes had looked sultry and twice their normal size, and her full mouth wider than she remembered.

Quite heady with the attention she had attracted when she arrived at the Albert Hall, she had played the vamp for all she was worth. And then Lukas had taken his seat among the judges and glanced around at the crowd. She had been in the front, her bag of flour concealed in the black suede fringed bag she had carried with her.

His eyes had fastened upon her with open appreciation as he took in every detail of her appearance in a slow and deliberate appraisal that made her blush to the roots of her beautifully coiffured hair. It was that look, the speculative lift of an eyebrow, that had made him her special target for the night. If he hadn’t been so attractive she could have coped. But she found her eyes continually drawn to the magnificent black-clad shoulders, fascinated by the way his hair curled into his neck. Hoping and yet dreading that he would look at her again. And he had looked.

They had had to sit through the early rounds. As the girls had paraded in their national costumes and evening dresses Lukas had given her rather more attention than the contestants. She would have thought he was trying to pick her up if he had so much as smiled, but he hadn’t. He had just stared. Well, she had shown him. That long moment when they were waiting for the result, when the television cameras had nothing special to look at, that was when they had struck with their bags of flour and soot.

But Lukas hadn’t been a passive victim. He had grabbed a handful of her blouse and hung on despite her struggles until the buttons had given way. Instead of leaving it behind, and beating a retreat in her bra, she had tried to wrest it from him. Her efforts to cover herself had given him a second chance, and he had not wasted it. With one swift movement he had his arm around her waist, turned her over his knee and lifted that skirt. She shuddered at the recollection of his hand slapping her backside with considerable enthusiasm. Then, in the general pandemonium as the others had been arrested, Lukas had dodged the law and carried her backstage under his arm.

His black hair had been full of the flour she had dumped on him and as he shook his head a cloud of it rose around him and then descended over them both, coating his beautifully cut dinner-jacket. Her satisfaction had been short-lived.

‘Are you going to scram, or do you want some more?’ he demanded, as he finally handed her the treacherous blouse.

Scarlet, she struggled into it, clutching it around her. ‘Why didn’t you just leave me to be arrested with my friends?’

His eyes were like slate. ‘Because, Miss Feminist, I prefer not to be the butt of the tabloids. I didn’t duck out here to save you. If it was personal publicity you wanted, you should have thrown your flour at someone else. I’m going to clean up. That’s the way out.’ He pointed down the corridor. Trembling with rage and frustration, she raised her hand to slap him.

‘Mr Lukas, sir, is that one of the trouble-makers?’ A security guard had appeared behind her and she whirled round, but Lukas anticipated her intention of giving herself up and was too quick for her. His arm slipped around her waist and before she could protest he had pulled her close, holding her effortlessly.

‘No. A friend, she’s just leaving. Perhaps you would escort her safely to the rear exit? Just in case there are any more hooligans about.’ She struggled angrily to free herself, but Lukas had no intention of letting her go so easily. Instead he bent swiftly over her and, realising his intent, she closed her eyes, desperately hoping that what she couldn’t see wasn’t happening. The first touch of his lips destroyed that illusion. This was reality with a vengeance. She had never been kissed to such effect before, or by anyone with the ability to turn her bones to putty. When at last Lukas had finished with her, she was too shaken to protest at his cavalier treatment. She merely sighed. He stared at her for a moment, his cool grey eyes shaded by unbelievably long lashes. ‘There’s hope for you yet,’ he murmured finally, releasing her. ‘Here, you’d better have this.’ He slipped his jacket around her shoulders. Then louder, for the security guard, ‘I’ll see you later,’ he drawled before disappearing in the direction of the dressing-rooms. ‘Keep the bed warm, sweetheart.’ And she had had to endure the sly smirk of the security man all the way to the exit.

George touched her lips in an involuntary gesture as she remembered that kiss. There was no reason to believe that among the hundreds of women who passed before his camera lens he would remember her, but it might be a good idea to disguise herself a little. Nothing obvious, just enough to avoid jogging his memory. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t be taking that suede skirt with her.

Henry’s eyebrows rose slightly as she opened the door to his ring and George had the grace to laugh. ‘Don’t look like that, Henry,’ she begged.

‘You took me back a bit, miss. I thought for a moment I’d come to the wrong house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a suit before.’

‘And very uncomfortable it is too. If this is what is meant by turning over a new leaf, I shall be glad when it’s spring.’

Henry took her bags and led the way down to the car. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the place while you’re away, shall I?’

‘Some of my friends are stopping there at the moment.’ She saw the doubt in his face. ‘They’re not as bad as they look, really. But I’ve left some things for Miss Bishop in the hall; I’d be glad if you’d pick them up tomorrow. Did Bishop ask you about a camera?’ she asked, changing the subject.

‘It’s in the boot. The receipts are in an envelope, for Customs.’

‘Jambo, memsahib. Anything to declare?’ George looked at the cheerful face, and gave herself a mental shake. She had slept the night away as the 747 had crossed Europe and half the length of Africa. She had missed a breathtaking sunrise over Sudan and left unopened the paperbacks she had bought at the airport. She had woken to steaming coffee and croissants, wishing heartily she had worn jeans and a sweatshirt instead of her now sadly crumpled suit.

The formalities of Customs took no time at all and soon George was being whisked towards Nairobi in a rackety Peugeot taxi decorated with red plush and gold fringes. She hardly had time for more than a glimpse of scrubby bush and distant hills before they were in the city, speeding along a dual carriageway lined with trees and parks, and punctuated by roundabouts dense with sculptured and exotic plant life.

On arrival at the Norfolk she was greeted by a vast Masai porter, six and a half feet if he was an inch.

‘ Jambo, memsahib. ’

‘Jambo,’ George replied, quickly getting her tongue around the universal greeting and received a brilliant smile in return.

The receptionist too was welcoming. ‘I’ve put you in one of the cottages, Miss Bainbridge, just through Reception, facing the garden. If you can fill in the registration form, please.’

‘Of course. Am I in time for some breakfast?’

The receptionist checked her watch. ‘Oh, yes. Another hour.’

‘Great. I’m starving.’ She signed the form and handed it to the girl.

‘Your bags have been taken to your cottage. It’s number three. Here’s the key.’

George picked up the bag from the desk and turned to go. Then, with a sudden tremor, she stopped.

The tall figure seemed to fill the doorway. Cool grey eyes swept the small reception area, impatiently dismissing the airline staff and American tourists eager to be off on safari. Lukas headed for the desk, totally oblivious of the head-turning ripple that marked his progress across the room.

George watched his progress with apprehension. She remembered only too well that arrogant, hackle-raising assurance that was making the prickles stir on the nape of her neck.

Ridiculously she wished she’d had time to make herself look a bit more presentable. Her hair was everywhere, and she cursed her stupid suit to perdition. At least he would never connect the seductively dressed girl he had placed over his knee with this crumpled mess. But she grabbed the plain tinted spectacles from her bag and placed them on her nose as an extra precaution.

‘I’m looking for George Bainbridge. He should have arrived this morning. Could you page him for me, please?’ The receptionist stared, then giggled.

Lukas had been polite enough, but now he drew straight brows into a frown. Speaking slowly and carefully, as if she were slow-witted, or could not speak English, he tried again.

‘I am Lukas. He is expecting me.’ The girl looked at George and collapsed into speechless giggles, hiding the broad whiteness of her smile behind long brown fingers. He turned to follow her gaze and George could no longer postpone the moment. She firmly squashed the butterflies that were beating a tattoo in her abdomen and stepped forward.

‘I think you must be looking for me, Mr Lukas. I am Georgette Bainbridge,’ she said coolly. She extended her hand with a confidence she was far from feeling and trusted that he would not notice the slight tremor that seemed, quite suddenly, to have invaded her entire body.

For a long moment he stared at her. She shifted uncomfortably under his hard, unbelieving gaze. ‘Everyone calls me George …’ Her voice trailed off uncertainly and she dropped her hand. He was obviously in no mood to take it.

His eyes travelled slowly from the toes of the plain black calf shoes, taking in the crumpled grey tailored suit and the white silk scarf that she had knotted so flippantly about her throat the night before, but which she was now aware looked merely rather sad. She had completed her transformation with a severe bun, from which wisps of hair were untidily escaping, and large tinted spectacles that were left over from the time she had suffered from an unsightly eye infection. The effect she had strived for was efficient and businesslike. But after sleeping in her clothes she looked anything but.

George was not unused to men weighing her up, assessing the possibilities, had seen Lukas do it himself. But he showed no such interest on this occasion. The curve of his mouth showed nothing but distaste and under his breath he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, ‘Oh, my dear God. What on earth have I done to deserve this?’

Stung, George was about to tell him. She opened her mouth, then remembered her father’s words: ‘Keep Mr Lukas happy and you’re forgiven.’ She wouldn’t allow this wretched man to ruin her plans. She swallowed and instead forced a smile to her lips and said a little breathlessly,

‘I’m afraid I’ve only just arrived. I was going to have breakfast. Will you join me, Mr Lukas?’

‘Not Mr. Just Lukas.’ His eyes, dark and intense under thick black brows, snapped with irritation. ‘If you must eat, we’d better get on with it.’

The receptionist, having recovered from her giggles, was watching them with open fascination. Lukas glared at her and she rapidly found something of great interest on the desk in front of her.

George, infuriated by this unpleasant greeting, forced herself to stay calm. ‘Well, I’m starving. Why don’t you go in and order for us both to save time, while I wash my hands.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Please don’t take too long, Georgette.’

George was quite firm. ‘Not Georgette. George.’ She picked up her bag and then couldn’t resist a coy little wave. ‘I won’t be long.’

Her reward for this performance was to hear his barely contained explosive, ‘God give me strength!’

Under the shower she veered between fury and amusement. Lukas clearly didn’t like his women plain and untidy. Well, she didn’t like him either. But for two weeks on location, photographing in Kenya, she would put up with a lot. And her father was right. He could teach her a great deal. So, while neither of them might like it, they were stuck with each other.

As she rifled through her bag, looking for something suitable to wear, she was almost sorry she had spent so much valuable time pressing her clothes. It would have been fun to change into something just as crumpled as her suit. She smiled wryly as she recalled that she had spent most of yesterday evening wishing she had taken more trouble with her wardrobe in recent months. Now her charity-shop bargains seemed to offer endless amusement. She slipped into a loose white T-shirt with a neck that had suffered somewhat in the wash. She had packed it to wear with her jeans, but they would be staying firmly at the bottom of her bag for the moment. Instead she pulled on a pair of well-worn green trousers that bagged at the knees, and she finished the look with an ancient pair of leather clogs that had once been expensive, but now were merely comfortable.

George surveyed herself in the mirror. Her deep gold hair was disguised in a neat if unbecoming bun. She teased a strand loose so that it would fall untidily with very little encouragement. Perfect. Her disguise seemed to take on a life of its own. Not quite grotesque. Just awful enough not to want to be seen with. Not, that was, if you were Mr Lukas.

Chapter Two

Lukas was sitting facing the doorway of the dining-room. He stared distractedly into space, his long fingers playing with a spoon and totally unaware of her presence. George paused in the opening and made a point of looking short-sightedly about her until she was sure she had attracted the attention of at least half of those present. As if suddenly aware that something demanded his attention, he looked up and saw her. It was a moot point whether he actually flinched, but George was not prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. She waved enthusiastically and sailed towards him, firmly repressing the urge to try a theatrical ‘trip’. There was a limit to what she might be expected to get away with.

‘That’s better.’ She grinned widely from behind her spectacles, keeping her amusement at the tight line of his mouth firmly under control. ‘Have you ordered for me?’

‘An English breakfast. You said you were hungry. You can help yourself to fruit or cereals from the buffet.’ He carelessly waved at the laden tables in the centre of the dining-room.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed as if she had only just noticed the lavish spread of tropical fruit. ‘But I don’t … That is …’ she stammered. ‘It’s all … rather strange to me,’ she ended, peering anxiously at him from behind the spectacles, wondering how she had ever managed without such a wonderful prop before. ‘Would you help me to choose?’

Lukas sat very still for a moment, and George could see the battle between his desire to strangle her and natural good manners pass briefly across his face. Good manners won, by a very short head.

‘Of course.’ He dropped his napkin beside his plate and rose to his feet. She had forgotten how tall he was, well over six feet, and dwarfing her own feeble five foot six. He certainly attracted a great deal of attention as he led her around the buffet, showing her the different tropical fruits and attempting to explain the taste of papaw, mangoes, guavas and tree melons. She exclaimed loudly at these treats, feigned indecision and revelled in his embarrassment. ‘Why don’t you just try everything?’ he said finally, allowing a hint of sarcasm to harden the edge of his voice.

‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ George exclaimed, and helped herself to the slice of papaw she had always intended to have.

Once he had settled her back in her seat, and served her with hot coffee, Lukas cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there seems to have been a slight misunderstanding, Miss Bainbridge—’

She interrupted. ‘George. All my friends call me George, Mr Lukas, and I am sure we’re going to be very good friends.’

He declined to comment on that possibility and resumed where he had left off. ‘I was expecting a man. When Miss Bishop telexed that I should expect George Bainbridge, I naturally assumed …’

George laughed loudly. ‘You’d be amazed how many people make that mistake, but nobody ever calls me Georgette. Daddy always wanted a son, you see. I’m afraid all he got were daughters. Henry, Max and me.’

Lukas made a brave effort to recover from this revelation. ‘The trouble is—er—George, it’s going to cause some difficulty with the accommodation. Michael Prior was sharing a tent with me. And we don’t have any spare room in with the girls.’

George choked on a piece of fruit and Lukas leapt up to beat on her back. Rather harder than necessary, she thought as she waved him away. ‘I’m all right. Really.’ Removing her glasses, she wiped her eyes, then sipped some coffee. She took a deep breath. ‘Did you say tent?’

For the first time since they had met Lukas looked happy. As he resumed his seat he actually smiled. ‘Yes. Two-man tents. Didn’t Miss Bishop mention that?’ He poured himself some more coffee. ‘We’re camped south of Nairobi, on the Athi River. Did you think we were shooting in Nairobi?’

George said nothing. She was speechless. She hadn’t had much time to think about the shoot itself. She had thought her only problem was Lukas. But her father had known nothing of that incident. He did know, however, that she hated camping. That she loathed insects of any description and, worst of all, she was terrified of the dark. Pa was certainly getting his pound of flesh out of her.

Two weeks of Lukas, to ensure a better life for some youngsters who needed her help, had seemed a small price to pay. Too small. She should have known her father better than that. He was challenging her at long distance. How badly did she believe in her refuge? She drew in a deep, steadying breath. Badly enough.

‘We may be able to get another tent from somewhere,’ Lukas went on doubtfully, a speculative look in his eye, at her sudden pallor. ‘Although we had the very devil of a job to get the ones we’re using. But if you won’t mind being on your own …’ Lukas helped himself to some toast, his appetite apparently restored. ‘I suppose as long as you don’t wander about at night you should be safe enough.’ She stared at him as he bit into the toast, exposing a row of even white teeth, then shuddered. ‘Do you normally wear glasses, George?’

‘Glasses?’ In her shock she had forgotten all about them. George ducked, quickly replacing her disguise. ‘Oh, yes. Always. I can’t do without them.’

Lukas shook his head. ‘Just for the moment I thought I had seen you somewhere before. The colour of your eyes is … unusual.’

‘Perhaps we’ve passed in my father’s office,’ she said quickly, making a determined effort to pull herself back into her role. ‘Although I’m sure I would have remembered,’ she gushed.

‘Your father’s office?’ She could almost hear the cogs working as he took in what she had said. ‘Charles is your father?’ He stared in disbelief. ‘Miss Bishop said in her telex to expect a young relative of Sir Charles … but then I knew he only had daughters …’

‘And you were expecting a man!’ She forced herself to laugh out loud at this wonderful joke.

She saw a sudden spark of hope light his dark eyes. ‘Well, Miss Bainbridge … sorry, George,’ he corrected himself, making a belated attempt at friendliness. ‘I realise that you can’t possibly be expected to share a tent with me. It would be most improper. Your father …’

George found herself unexpectedly offered a get-out. Lukas didn’t want her. He would rather have no assistant at all than this badly dressed, unattractive creature. Her skill was of no importance to him, she reflected bitterly.

She could go home and say, quite truthfully, that when Lukas had found out that it was a girl they had sent him he had said no, thank you. But she had the strongest feeling that she wouldn’t be believed. Who would believe such a ridiculous story? And Pa wouldn’t keep his promise to help with the refuge. Oh, no, Mr Lukas, she thought as she sipped her coffee. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. And she took comfort from the fact that her enforced presence on the shoot was as irritating for Lukas as it was for her.

Lukas had his hands on the table in front of him, his fingers laced together, his expression that of a man behaving with the utmost valour. George reached out and patted them kindly. Leaning forward, in a confidential tone she said, ‘Do you know the very last thing Pa said to me yesterday? He said, “George, keep Mr Lukas happy.” So don’t you worry yourself a bit. It will be a relief to share a tent with you. I shall feel completely safe.’ And that too was the truth, she thought grimly, firmly suppressing a shiver at the thought of being alone in a tent in the bush. Anything would be better than that. And she was sure that she would be perfectly safe from any unwanted attentions. There seemed little likelihood of Lukas making a pass at her. ‘Oh, look. Here’s breakfast.’ She gazed at a plate piled high with more than she normally ate in a week for breakfast. ‘Yummy,’ she said, hoping the dismay she felt was not evident in her voice.

Lukas had obviously decided against a cooked breakfast. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, giving George a chance to study his face as she nibbled a slice of bacon. In repose he looked younger, less dangerous. And his eyelashes were scandalously long. It was a pity he wasted so much time on pointless work: calendars, pin-up girls, beauty competitions. A photographer with his talent and reputation could do a great deal of good with his camera.

‘When you’ve finished we’ll get off.’ He hadn’t opened his eyes and he made her jump. She wondered uneasily if he had been aware of her appraisal.

‘So soon? I would have liked to see a little of Nairobi.’

‘I’m not in the guided-tour business and this isn’t a holiday, Miss … George. If you’re going to be my assistant you had better accept that right now.’ He had stopped being polite, lifting heavy lids slightly to see the effect his words were having on her. ‘Preferably without having to be told twice.’

He had apparently decided that he was stuck with her. But he didn’t like it. And she was ridiculously glad he didn’t like it. But she kept her smile inside. She abandoned her effort to eat another sausage.

‘I’ll get my bags, then.’ He stood up and she waited for him to offer to collect them for her. He didn’t.

‘I’ll be waiting in the jeep. Don’t be long.’

‘No. At least I don’t suppose it will take long to phone home, will it? I did promise Pa I would let him know I had arrived safely.’ Some devil was driving her to annoy him, and she was unable to resist this last gibe.

Lukas placed his hands on the table and leaned across at her, his face very close to hers. She had time to notice that his eyes were grey, flecked curiously with blue, and they were surrounded by small white lines from being screwed up against the sun. It seemed unlikely that they were laughter-lines. A small muscle worked in his jaw.

‘Miss Bainbridge,’ he said heavily, ‘I have wasted enough time today coming to Nairobi to fetch you. I’m going straight back. And if you are going to work for me, so are you. If your father wants to know that you arrived safely he will have to telephone the airline.’

George knew that she had gone too far. She wanted Lukas embarrassed, she wanted him unhappy. Angry she could do without.

‘I’m …’ But he was in full flow and not about to be stopped.

‘When I am working on location I work twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. And when I work, everybody works.’ He let his words sink in. Then he continued with obvious relish, ‘As my assistant you will be at my beck and call every moment of your waking life—and your sleeping one if I decide I need you in the night. So perhaps you had better decide where your priorities lie right now. I haven’t the time to run back and forth to Nairobi so that you can telephone your father.’ He stood up. ‘I thought the man had more sense …’ he muttered.

She fumed inwardly. ‘It’s just as well we’ll be sharing a tent, then,’ she replied sharply. ‘I can ask your permission when I need to use the lavatory.’

His eyes narrowed and, realising that she had let her disguise slip, she giggled and hiccuped. ‘But I’d better not tell Pa. He might not understand.’

Like a drowning man, he clutched at the offered straw. ‘You’re right. He might not. Look, why don’t you just stay in Nairobi for a few days? Have a look around. There’s a lot to see. Just enjoy yourself. No one will blame you; it’s well known that I’ve a short fuse. You could just say I was impossible to work for. There are plenty of people who would believe you.’ He sounded genuinely sympathetic. He almost smiled. ‘You can see how difficult it’s going to be. That’s the reason I prefer a male assistant. It will be very rough going, you know.’

Cruelly she snatched this straw from his grasp. ‘Now, Mr Lukas …’

‘Lukas, just Lukas!’ he appealed.

‘Oh, yes. Like “just George”.’ She giggled, again. ‘Now Lukas, you remember what I said. Pa said I was to keep you happy. And keep you happy I will. However will you manage if you don’t have someone to hold your light meter? I’ll just go and get my bags, and then we can be off.’

‘Hold my light meter …?’ For a moment she thought he was going to explode. Instead he straightened and with a shrug said, ‘I’ll meet you out front.’

And he was waiting impatiently behind the wheel when she returned. She threw her bags into the back and jumped up beside him. He stared in horror at the floppy hat she had added to her outfit with what, modesty thrown to the four winds, she believed to be a touch of genius. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again in a hard line.

‘Well? What are we waiting for?’ she asked with a happy smile. ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’

He made no reply, started the jeep and executed a vicious U-turn before skidding away from the Norfolk Hotel.

They had travelled several miles before he spoke. ‘That is a terrible hat.’

George touched the offending headgear. ‘Oh. Do you think so? It’s just to keep the sun off. This is hardly Ascot, is it?’

He gave her a sideways glance, taking in her motley attire, and grinned. ‘Hardly. And I certainly wouldn’t want you to get sunstroke. At least the other girls won’t feel threatened.’

‘Girls?’ she repeated, refusing to get angry over his careless personal remark. After all, she told herself, she didn’t care what he thought of her.

‘They’re highly strung creatures. They don’t like competition from non-professionals.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What girls?’

Lukas stared at her. ‘The models. There are three of them. Kelly, Amber and Peach.’ He sighed. ‘For the calendar. Your father’s calendar.’

‘Calendar.’ She breathed the word. It wasn’t a question, because she knew now the full extent of her father’s punishment. And half an hour ago she could have escaped. But not now. Now she was headed towards some unknown camp with Lukas. She had a few traveller’s cheques, but no return air ticket, no way of getting home without throwing herself upon her father’s mercy. And that she was not about to do. She was trapped and she would have to make the most of it.

‘Yes, calendar. Didn’t your father tell you?’

She shook her head. ‘He was having a little joke with me. He has quite a sense of humour.’

Lukas glanced at her and almost smiled. ‘Yes, I’d agree with that. So, tell me what you know about photography. What you’ve done.’ He added, a little grimly, ‘If anything.’

She didn’t answer immediately, couldn’t trust herself to, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hand to stop herself saying exactly what she thought. Lukas, it seemed, was in no hurry; his expression was unreadable as he waited for her to collect her thoughts. She sat desperately trying to think of something clever to say as Nairobi dipped below the skyline behind them and they began to drive eastwards across the empty plain.

For a while she had been enjoying the little game she was playing, but suddenly it wasn’t a game. She stared out at the wide horizons, looking for inspiration. The hills over to the right were hazy blue, and the plain rolled away from them. It was vast, beautiful.

George gave herself a mental shake. What on earth was she complaining about? Perhaps being a colourless doormat under the feet of Lukas for two weeks was more than flesh and blood would be able to sustain. But she would certainly try. And she might as well get some amusement from it.

‘I’ve taken lots of family photos,’ she said, hesitantly, making sure to keep her face quite serious. ‘The dogs. My sister’s babies.’ She stole a glance at Lukas. His face was set and hard as he took in her answer. ‘They are very good. Everyone says so.’

‘Dogs and babies.’ His voice was expressionless. ‘I see. Anything else?’

She pretended to think. ‘I took a photograph of the Princess Royal once.’

‘Oh?’ he said, rousing a little more interest.

‘Yes. She came to open a new wing at school. Of course she was just Princess Anne then … I sent her a copy that I printed myself. She wrote and thanked me.’ She counted to three silently. ‘At least her lady-in-waiting did. I kept the letter in my scrapbook. It’s very hot, isn’t it?’ She fanned herself with her hand.

They were descending now and it was a lot warmer. The air had changed from the sharper clarity of the high plateau and there was a warm mustiness about it.

‘It would have been cooler travelling if you hadn’t wanted to eat,’ he replied with some justification. ‘And it will get a lot warmer than this. Nairobi is six thousand feet above sea level, and we’re dropping down three thousand feet.’

‘How long will it take to get to the camp?’ she asked, looking around her and spotting with surprise and pleasure a herd of gazelle grazing near the road.

‘That depends on the traffic.’

‘On what?’ She gasped, her attention re-directed towards Lukas. ‘What traffic?’ The road stretched away straight and clear before them. They were passed only by an occasionally overloaded taxi being driven at a ridiculous speed, and saw the occasional truck driving towards the capital.

‘Not cars or lorries. I was thinking of the odd elephant who didn’t want to get out of the middle of the road.’

‘You’re joking!’

Satisfaction that he had managed to dent her confidence was written in every line of his darkly tanned face. ‘I once had to back five miles down the side of an escarpment, just because an elephant decided it wanted to walk in that direction,’ he said softly. ‘But not more than a couple of hours, I suppose.’

‘Where was that?’

Lukas glanced across at her. ‘The elephant?’ She nodded. ‘Down on the Zambezi.’

Not here. Relief swept over her. ‘And were you taking photographs for a calendar there as well?’

A sudden grin transformed his face. ‘I could have done. There were a lot of very pretty girls.’ Then the smile faded. ‘I was there taking some publicity photographs for Save the Children. They were trying to raise money for polio vaccine.’

‘Oh.’ George was silenced.

Lukas frowned. ‘That surprises you?’

‘No. I hoped that was what you were doing here.’

‘I see. Well, I’m sorry. You’ll have to take it up with your father … it’s his calendar.’ He glanced at her with a slightly puzzled look. ‘It beats dogs and babies any day of the week.’

Knowing the lengths she had had to go to produce the portraits of her nieces and nephews, George didn’t doubt it, but that was not what he meant.

‘Babies and dogs are harmless,’ she countered sharply, and regretted it before the words were half out of her mouth.

‘Some babies, and some dogs,’ he said coldly, and they drove on in silence for a while until they reached a bridge. Lukas pulled over, climbed down and held out a hand to assist her.

‘Why have we stopped?’

‘I’m indulging you in a little sightseeing,’ he said, although there was something about the glint in his eyes that belied that statement. ‘You did want to do some sightseeing, didn’t you, George?’ Hesitantly she placed her hand in his and allowed him to help her down. For a moment they stood in the baking sun, and George was acutely aware of Lukas’s scrutiny, and his warm fingers holding on to her hand. Glad of the protection of her glasses, she broke away from his piercing look and glanced about her.

‘Well? What are we supposed to be looking at?’

‘That,’ he replied, pointing to another bridge a little way up the river. ‘It’s the Tsavo railway bridge.’ She nodded uncertainly, wondering what could be so special about a very ordinary steel railway bridge.

‘It’s lovely. Thank you for showing it to me.’ She turned to climb back up into the jeep. He had kept hold of her hand, tightening his grip.

‘Surely you’ve heard of the man-eaters of Tsavo?’ he asked. ‘Or didn’t you do your homework before you came on this trip?’

‘I wasn’t told until yesterday that I had to come.’

‘Told?’ He shrugged and didn’t wait for a reply. ‘They were a pair of lions who killed and ate more than a hundred men working on a railway bridge.’

‘Good gracious,’ George said with polite interest.

‘That’s the bridge. I thought you’d be interested.’

‘Oh, I am. I love those old stories. They exaggerate so wonderfully.’

He laughed. ‘You think I’m exaggerating, do you? It held up the railway for over a year. There’s an excellent book about it. A personal account written by the chief engineer. I’ll lend it to you if you think you’ll have the time to read it.’

She gave him a long measured look but the hard profile gave nothing away. ‘Thank you.’ Lukas allowed her to pull herself free and she climbed back into the jeep, still not quite sure what Lukas was driving at.

‘They dragged one engineer right out of a railway carriage,’ he said as he pulled himself into the seat alongside her. ‘But most of the victims were Indian workers asleep in their tents.’ He laid the slightest emphasis on the word tent. He said no more, but gently let out the clutch and drove on. ‘Of course lions aren’t necessarily the most dangerous animals in the national park. There are some very nasty dudus.’

‘ Dudus ?’

‘Insects, bugs, creepy crawlies. It’s the Swahili word.’

Feeling cold and clammy, George wiped away the sweat that was gathering under the unaccustomed spectacles. Aware that Lukas was regarding her discomfort with some pleasure, she made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Oh, just look at that road sign. “Beware. Elephants.” Just like ponies in the New Forest.’

Lukas turned to her impatiently, but before he could make some caustic remark his focus shifted and he slowed the jeep.

‘What is it? Why are we stopping?’

‘Quiet. There are elephants ahead. They’re probably just going to cross.’ He gently eased the jeep into reverse in case the herd decided to investigate them.

‘Don’t be silly …’ George started, sure she was being made a fool of. But suddenly she could see them. Just on the edge of the road, merging into the green-grey scrubby trees, she caught the dangerous lifted curve of ivory and the slow movement of great ears. ‘Oh, but that’s incredible.’ Then, aware of his scrutiny, said inanely, ‘You mean they cross just where there’s a sign? How clever.’ Then she abandoned her tiresome alter ego and, longing for her camera, turned to reach her bag in the back, cursing herself for not loading some film before she left.

‘Be still!’ Lukas hissed between his teeth, catching her arm and forcefully propelling her back into her seat.

‘But I just … oh, look there’s a little one …’ Then one of the largest animals turned to face them. She stepped forward, waving her great ears.

‘And quiet! This isn’t a zoo!’ George subsided immediately, not needing to be told twice that the animal was threatening them. She had to content herself with watching the herd silently cross the road, and just for the moment she was glad she wasn’t on her own despite the humiliating way that Lukas gripped her arm. Above the smell of hot oil and dust she could detect the faint scent of his cologne and she tore her eyes from the herd to regard her adversary.

The contrast with their previous meeting was startling. On that occasion he had been all smooth and manicured charm in an expensive dinner-jacket and snowy dress-shirt. His dark, almost black hair, despite its dousing with flour, had been fresh from a stylist who knew his job. Now, too long for elegance and damp with the heat, it had resumed a wayward curl. Sweat trickled down the side of his face and damp patches stained the sleeveless jacket he wore open over a short-sleeved shirt.

George wondered where he had come from. The name—Lukas—the faint trace of an accent, suggested eastern Europe.

He turned and caught her staring. For a moment he held her gaze, then abruptly he let go of her. ‘They’re almost across.’

She rubbed her arm where his fingers had bit into the flesh and blushed, feeling foolish. She jumped as one of the beasts turned and bellowed at them, raising its trunk, before turning and disappearing with the rest.

When they had gone Lukas slowly moved forwards. George peered somewhat nervously into the bush on the side of the road as they passed, but there was nothing to threaten them. The elephant had gone. She sat back against the rock-hard seat. ‘They’re so big,’ she breathed. ‘Does that happen often?’

‘I suppose so. But you were lucky to see it. And it’s an ancient elephant crossing. The sign was put there to warn humans, not instruct elephants. You’d better have your camera ready in future, just in case your luck holds.’

‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed,’ she promised. And my toes. And my eyes … She giggled and was aware of an irritated exclamation from Lukas, but she didn’t care.

‘It’s quite difficult to take photographs with your fingers crossed. But I’m sure you know that.’

The sun rose higher, and the heat increased in direct proportion.

For the first time, George wondered what exactly lay ahead of her. She had been too tired the day before to worry about it, and her confrontation with Lukas had given her no time for thought. But, as well as Lukas, out here were snakes and spiders and lizards and, apparently, lions.

The thought caused a crawling sensation at the base of her spine. She desperately wanted to turn and check that there was nothing in the jeep with them, waiting its moment to grab her by the neck and drag her away. She broke into a sweat as she considered that this was full daylight. Whatever would it be like at night?

She kept her face determinedly forward, refusing to give in to nameless fears.

‘Hold on!’ The warning came barely in time. She was half jolted from her seat as Lukas swung the jeep off the road into the bush and over the railway line. There was a group of huts, a tiny store, a flurry of chickens and a glimpse of almost naked children staring with solemn black eyes as they swept past.

‘Say goodbye to civilisation,’ Lukas said with a grin, as they bounced along the road. Road! George caught her breath as the jeep slammed into a rut and bounced out again, lifting her clear of her seat. Lukas seemed not to notice, but then he had the steering-wheel to hold on to. She clung to her seat as they bounced along, leaving clouds of red dust in their wake.

A deer flew across the road in panic, practically jumping the jeep’s bonnet, and George let out a small shriek.

‘It’s only an impala,’ Lukas mocked. ‘You get used to them. You’ll see all sorts of creatures if you keep your eyes open. Foxes, jackals …’

‘Lions?’ she asked crossly.

They hit another rut and he didn’t answer. George allowed herself a little inner feeling of satisfaction. He must be mad, thinking he could scare her with man-eating lion stories. She wasn’t scared of lions. Dudus were something else.

‘We’re nearly there.’ He slowed the jeep and George could see, in the distance, a greener patch of vegetation. ‘The camp’s on the other side of the river.’

The ‘river’ lay in a deep gorge carved out by rainy season floods, but now was nothing more than a few small trickles of water meandering between broad sand banks and only occasionally widening into pools. Lukas approached the bank with care. ‘It’s a good job for us the rains weren’t bad. Otherwise we would have to cross by dinghy.’

‘I’ve no objection to getting my feet wet in a good cause,’ George said flippantly and immediately wished she hadn’t.

‘That’s a statement you may live to regret, George.’ Lukas smiled at some private thought as they tilted down the seemingly vertical drop. George hung desperately on to the jeep’s dash until they reached the bottom, where they splashed through the small streams. Then he attacked the far bank. For a moment George thought they were not going to make it. She held her breath as the jeep seemed to hang suspended without the power to get to the top. But suddenly they were there. Wherever ‘there’ was.

‘Welcome to Kathekakai,’ Lukas said expansively, indicating the few tents with a wave of his hand.

‘Kathekakai.’ She said the word slowly, rolling it around her mouth. It had an almost magical sound, conjuring up witch doctors and ritual dances. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Place of Dread. Or Place of Killing—take your pick,’ Lukas said matter-of-factly.

George stared at him, trying to decide if she was being wound up again. But he had climbed down from the driving seat and was striding towards a large open-sided mess tent where several people were sitting. Feeling suddenly very alone, she scrambled down and ran after him, trying not to think what might be in the dry grass.

There were about half a dozen people sitting around a table, playing cards. They called out a greeting to Lukas, but their attention was caught by George. Lukas turned and caught her arm to pull her forward.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I present George Bainbridge,’ he said with a flourish.

There was a sudden silence and a man, thick-set and middle-aged, who had his back to her, turned, stared for a moment then suddenly grinned.

‘Good God. It’s a girl.’

‘I’m relieved you know the difference, Walter,’ Lukas said drily.

‘Oh, I’ve always known the difference, dear boy.’ He came towards George and held out a hand in welcome. ‘Take no notice of Lukas. I believe he practises being horrible in front of a mirror.’

A striking brunette, who had looked up at George’s arrival, looked away again. ‘I think I’m up. Four kings and a run of hearts.’ She laid some cards out in front of her.

George felt a pulse beating in her neck. There had been a casual insolence, a dismissal of something without interest, about the girl’s attitude. She made a very special effort to focus her mind on why she was here, in this Place of Dread, fixing her thoughts on the youngsters living in cardboard boxes and how much they would love to feel this sun, how lucky they would think her. She allowed her face to relax into a smile and stepped into the shade of the tent. ‘It seems there has been a bit of a mix-up. I’m Georgette Bainbridge. Everybody calls me George.’

‘Are you related to Sir Charles?’

‘She’s his daughter, Walter.’ And George sensed rather than saw the look that passed between them. ‘Is there anything to drink? What would you like, George?’

‘Mineral water?’ she asked, and was promptly handed a glass of ice-cold water.

‘Thank you.’ She drank it down in thirsty gulps and almost felt the steam rising. ‘I’ll get my things from the jeep, if someone will show me where to put them.’

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