The man behind the mask…

Sophie Nash always knew that trespassing on elusive celebrity Chay Buchanan’s Mediterranean island hideaway would be risky—and that’s before she’s caught red-handed, risking her life to take a photo of him! Even more worrying is her instant attraction to the gorgeous man in front of her…

Chay values privacy above all else, so when an accident requires that the delightfully bubbly Sophie must share his island sanctuary a little longer, he’s totally thrown. And that’s before he kisses her…!

“Please let me go, Chay.”

Sophie whispered the plea, her eyes huge.

“Don’t do that!” Chay lifted his hand to her heated cheek, to graze it with his thumb. “Or I’ll have to kiss you again...until you beg me to let you stay.”

“You’ve got a great notion of your physical attraction,” she declared roundly.

“Have I? Are you confident enough of your willpower to put it to the test?”

LIZ FIELDING was born in Berkshire, England, and educated at a convent school in Maidenhead. At twenty she took off for Africa to work as a secretary in Lusaka, where she met her civil engineer husband, John. They spent the following ten years working in Africa and the Middle East. She began writing during the long evenings when her husband was working away on contract. Liz and her husband are now settled in Wales with their children, Amy and William.

Prisoner of the Heart

Liz Fielding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

“Please let me go, Chay.”

About the Author

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

‘GOT you, Chay Buchanan!’ Sophie Nash’s triumphant exclamation was a tightly contained whisper. Perched on a rocky ledge fifty feet above a rock-strewn bay, she had waited too long–all an apparently endless afternoon, while the sun had crept around the headland, stealing her shade, beating into the exposed crevice with barely enough room to ease her aching back or flex her legs–to risk giving herself away now.

And she had almost given up. The sun was sinking fast, taking with it the precious light. Another ten minutes, she had promised herself, and she would end the torture and climb the fifteen or so feet back up to the top of the cliff. She had pressed herself a little closer to the comfort of the rock-face. The ledge had seemed larger viewed from the safety of the cliff-top and she had been so certain that she would be able to see the wide expanse of terrace between the tower and the sea. But she had been wrong. Only the tantalising glimpse of the pool had kept her riveted to her eyrie, praying that the sudden rise in temperature would tempt her quarry out for a swim. And finally it had.

The man fixed in her sights was staring out to sea, his hand raised against the westering sun. She released the shutter and the motor-wind drove the film forward as the wind whipped up a dark lock of hair and feathered it across his forehead. He was relaxed now, at ease in the safety of his keep. All that would change if he discovered that he was being observed. She shivered involuntarily, despite the heat. He had made himself more than clear. Warned her to stay away. Warned her that if she was ever unfortunate enough to be found anywhere near the old watch-tower that was his home with a camera in her possession she would discover that the dungeon was still a working feature.

Sophie shrugged away the disquieting thought of being locked inside the dark recesses of his tower. He had been simply melodramatic, trying to scare her off. Well, he would find out that she didn’t scare off that easily. His dungeon was undoubtedly nothing more threatening than a wine cellar these days. Besides, she wasn’t trespassing. There wasn’t a thing he could do to her. Oh, no? The thought was in her head before she could stop it. No! His property began on the other side of the great overhanging rock that so effectively protected his privacy. All but the pool at the sea’s edge. And he would never know she had been there until the photographs appeared alongside Nigel’s feature in Celebrity.

She twisted the zoom lens, closing in on the tanned profile and a pair of well-made shoulders, naked but for the towel thrown about them. The skin of his back gleamed like bronze silk in the early evening sun, smooth, packed with muscle, like an ancient statue of an athlete she had seen once in a museum. Her mouth dried as she panned the lense downwards, but the briefest black swimsuit clung to his hips, and the smallest gasp of something that might have been relief escaped her lips.

She quickly swung the long lens back up to his face, almost jumping as she adjusted the focus and he suddenly appeared close enough to touch. That first sense of triumph evaporated as she acknowledged that her response to such compelling masculinity, even at this distance, was as immediate and disturbing as on their first encounter. She felt a hot, remembering flush of shame at the way his knowing eyes had declined the imagined invitation.

He wasn’t even handsome, Sophie thought furiously. Chay Buchanan possessed no feature that might lay claim to such an adjective. His face was rugged, lived-in. No, slept-in. She shifted, uncomfortable with the memory of the naive way she had knocked at the door of his fortress to ask if he would let her take a photograph of him. She should have known that it couldn’t possibly be that simple or Nigel would never have asked her... Her foot disturbed a small shower of stones and in a sudden panic, sure that the whole world must hear, she flattened herself against the cliff and held her breath as they rattled down to the sea.

But there was no shout of rage and finally she braved a peek over the ledge. He hadn’t moved, his fierce profile fixed upon a distant yacht, sails straining against the wind as it cut through the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean.

Turn, she willed the man. Look this way. If he would just turn towards her, every painful, cramping moment on the ledge would be worthwhile. And turn he did, as if her mind had somehow reached out and touched his.

She took a deep, steadying breath as the lens was filled with that unforgettable face. Dark brows jutted fiercely over the sea-green eyes that this morning had seemed to bore into her to search out her secrets, and she had to remind herself very firmly that he had no idea that she had found a chink in his armour and was at this very moment intruding on his seclusion. If he had, he certainly wouldn’t be standing relaxed and at ease at the edge of his pool.

Chay Buchanan had made it only too plain that trespassers were not welcome, and she wondered briefly if his nose had been broken defending that privacy. The most recent library photographs of the man had been more than six years old. He had been standing grim-faced at his brother’s graveside, and in that shot his nose had been arrow-straight.

It had been set without much thought as to the aesthetics of the matter, and with his sun-darkened skin it gave him the hawkish look of a corsair. Just the kind of man to keep his enemies in a dungeon, Sophie thought uncomfortably. His mouth was wide and might be pleasing when he smiled. She wouldn’t know. When she had seen it last it had been little more than a thin angry slash over an uncompromising chin. She released the shutter and claimed the image for her own.

He pulled the towel from around his neck, and dropped it on the rocks at his feet. Her finger hovered over the shutter release, capturing the moment of sheer power and grace as his body unwound and he dived into the water of a pool carved out of the rocks, fed and cleaned by a narrow channel from the sea.

With a series of workmanlike pictures of the reclusive writer safely on film, Sophie leaned back against the rock to catch her breath. A slight frown creased her brow as she watched the man carving his way through the water.

Chay Buchanan had once strutted the literary stage like a young lion, the darling of the media. But it was years since he had appeared on every prestigious arts programme as the literary find of the century. Years since his last book had done the almost impossible feat of flying to the top of the bestseller lists in London and New York before capturing one of the greatest literary prizes on offer.

Since then, nothing. No more books to win prestigious prizes and fly to the top of the bestseller lists. No more photographs of him accompanied by beautiful women to fill the gossip pages. He had simply disappeared.

According to Nigel, he had turned his back on the world, sold his London home and retreated to this island fastness. With an up-to-date photograph it would make a good feature. Long on speculation, short on facts. He was an ideal target for the kind of magazine that lived off scandal and well-known faces.

Sophie’s fingers tightened around the cassette of film as she anticipated what would be done with her photographs. After this morning she had no reason to feel anything but antipathy for the man yet, slightly sickened by what she had done, she had to resist a sudden urge to fling the thing into the sea. She hated magazines like Celebrity. Sophie eased her shoulders, pushed back a wayward strand of fair hair that had escaped her plait to cling clammily to her forehead and watched her quarry, now slicing relentlessly through the water.

She stared down at the cassette, then, before she could do anything so utterly stupid, she dropped it into the button-down pocket of her shirt. She had no choice, she reminded herself. If Chay Buchanan had nothing to hide then Nigel couldn’t hurt him. And she very firmly shut out the insistent voice that told her she was fooling herself.

Automatically she reloaded the camera with film, her eyes straying once more to the powerful figure of Chay Buchanan. But he had stopped the apparently effortless crawl and was lying on his back in the water, looking back towards the tower. Sophie watched, almost mesmerised by the beauty of his body glistening through the sheen of water as it rose and fell against the restless sea surging through the narrow gap in the rock. A tiny crease furrowed her forehead as she frowned, wondering what he was doing. Then, with a jolt, she knew, almost froze, as a buzz of excitement rippled her skin to gooseflesh. He was watching someone. There was someone else on the terrace.

She flattened herself as close to the edge of her rocky perch as she dared and strained to see. Who was it? A woman? Please, please, she begged the kindly Fates, let it be a woman. Someone famous. A well-known actress. A model. Something sensational enough to make up for not getting inside the tower, something that would please Nigel enough to hand over that precious envelope... And if it was somebody else’s wife? Her conscience jabbed at her. She pushed the thought to one side. This was not the moment to dwell on moral dilemmas. She would worry about that later. Right now, if she didn’t keep her head, there would be no photographs.

She hung over the edge a little, blotting out the dizzying drop to the sea in her effort to gain a few extra inches of terrace, but the great overhang of rock that protected the tower from prying eyes was still obstructing her view. Chay Buchanan raised his arms in encouragement to his unseen companion and a flash of white teeth confirmed that he was laughing. And she had been right about his mouth. Long seconds passed before she remembered her task and captured the moment on film.

A sudden movement galvanised her into action, but the body that leapt into those inviting arms was no famous beauty. It was a child. A dark-haired, straight-limbed boy, five or maybe six years old, and as at home in the water as his father. For a moment surprise held her transfixed. There could be no mistake in the relationship, the likeness was too marked. But Nigel had said nothing about a child. Or a wife. And Chay Buchanan certainly hadn’t had the look of a married man.

She shook away the thought and the film ripped through the spool as she kept her finger on the release. With almost trembling fingers she dropped the used film into her bag and fed in another. There was barely enough light now for long-range photography. The sun was dipping relentlessly towards the sea, but still she carried on, her eye glued to the camera and the two figures framed in the viewfinder. Then she saw the boy pointing towards the cliff. Towards her.

Chay Buchanan’s eyes creased as he scoured the cliff, and the mouth once again became that angry slash as the lowering sun gleamed against the hooded lens, betraying her. For a particle of a second their eyes clashed as the distance that separated them shrank to nothing.

There was no hurry, she told her trembling fingers as she flipped the film from the camera. By the time he was dry and dressed and halfway to the cliff-top, where her car was hidden from casual view, she would be gone. There was plenty of time. She repeated the words over and over in her head like a mantra. Just a short, easy climb and she was away. But her hands trembled a little as she hurriedly pushed her camera into the soft cocoon in her carrying bag. She slung it over her shoulder, glanced up at the route she had to take and reached for the first handhold.

It was unexpectedly difficult. Hours of being cramped, unable to stretch properly, had left her stupidly weak, and her legs began to tremble as she forced them to push her upwards, and her hands slipped sweatily on the suddenly elusive handholds as she thought of Chay Buchanan hurrying to intercept her. She was forced to stop, draw deep breaths into her lungs, remind herself that it was easy. She hadn’t been about to kill herself over a few photographs. If it had been dangerous she would never have risked it.

Not even for Jennie? The thought of her sister lent her fresh strength. She had seen the way clearly down to the ledge. Now it was simply a matter of keeping her head, forgetting the drop below her and climbing back up to the cliff path before Chay Buchanan got there. The thought of meeting him again urged her on.

She clenched her teeth as the pain burned in her forearms. And with every agonising inch up the cliff-face she cursed Chay Buchanan. All she wanted was one photograph, a simple portrait to illustrate Nigel’s article. And she had asked politely. If he hadn’t been so damned rude she might have taken his refusal. It wasn’t her way to sneak around corners, taking pictures of people who would rather be left alone. But a stab of guilt seared her cheeks as she recalled the extraordinary thrill of triumph when she had had the man in her sights.

Her fingertips reached upwards; she was desperate now for the ledge. Surely she was nearly there? But fifteen feet suddenly seemed more like fifty as there was just more rock to tear at her nails and scrape the skin from her fingers. Going down, it had all seemed so simple. Plenty of footholds. No more daunting than the bank in the local park where she and Jennie had played as children. The difference being that when she had slipped in the park there hadn’t been a vertiginous drop down a sea-lashed cliff. Stop it! she warned her imagination. If she fell she would crash back on to the ledge. Nasty, painfut–that was all. All? And if she hit her head? Rolled off?

Panic made her glance up, and her shift in weight almost undid her. She threw herself back at the rock-face, closing her eyes to shut out the dizzy spinning, and for the first time felt real fear cold-feather her spine. She clung on, wondering just how long she could stay there before the pain in her arms and the trembling weakness in her legs became too much and she simply fell.

‘Can I offer you a hand, Sophie Nash?’

Her whole body lurched with shock at the harsh invitation. Taking great care not to overbalance, she glanced up once more, to find herself being regarded by a pair of fathomless eyes. He had flattened himself against the ground and stretched a hand down towards her. So close? She had been that close? She felt like weeping with frustration. But pride kept the tears at bay. Instead she glared at the strong, square hand and quite deliberately ignored the proferred lifeline. ‘I can manage,’ she ground out, and, as if to demonstrate this, grabbed the nearest rocky protrusion to ease herself up another few inches.

‘I really think you should take my hand,’ he advised coldly. ‘I won’t drop you, despite the undoubted provocation.’

But this small triumph had given her new heart. Adrenalin surging through her veins, she made another foot of height before she was forced once more to stop. She pressed her cheek against the rapidly cooling rock and tried to ease the strain on her limbs and drag air into her lungs through her parched throat. She hadn’t known it was possible to hurt so much.

‘Don’t be stubborn, Sophie.’ His voice was urgent now. ‘You’re not going to make it without help.’

His hawkish face was nearer, the lines carved deep into his cheeks, and he reached for her. ‘Leave me alone,’ she gasped, but the words were little more than a croak.

‘Fine words. Remember them,’ he ordered, ‘if you live long enough.’

‘I can manage!’ she repeated, the words turning into a scream when her foot slipped and her forehead collided sharply against the rock as she scrabbled with her toe for a hold to halt the sickening slip. She was jerked to an agonised halt as Chay Buchanan’s hands grasped her wrist and he hauled her over the edge, grabbing her in a vice-like grip as he rolled away from the yawning chasm.

‘You’ve dislocated my arm!’ she complained bitterly, as the pain of torn muscles brought tears swimming to her eyes.

‘You would rather have fallen?’ She didn’t answer, couldn’t answer through pain and tears. ‘And I haven’t dislocated anything.’ He moved her arm, none too gently, and she groaned involuntarily and let her head fall forward on to his naked chest. ‘See? Still in working order. No thanks to you.’

No wonder he had been so quick to reach her, she thought. He hadn’t bothered to dry himself or put on more than a pair of shorts. But she was too weak with pain and exhaustion to move. Instead she lay very still, her cheek pressed against the dark hair that stippled his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat, while she tried to recover her strength. But he wasn’t finished with her yet.

‘You have dangerous hobbies, Sophie Nash.’ He grasped her plait and yanked up her head, forcing her to confront him. ‘But then, it isn’t a hobby, is it?’ She yelped and fresh tears started to her eyes, but he didn’t care. His grasp only tightened, so that it was impossible to move without pain. ‘Nevertheless, climbing alone, without a safety line, is just about the most stupid, reckless...’ He stopped, clearly too angry to continue. Really angry. Those pirate’s eyes were fierce enough to kill. ‘Does anyone know where you are? If you’d fallen would anyone ever have known what had happened to you?’

How could he be so utterly heartless? Surely he must see that she was in agony? ‘Someone would have found my car,’ she gasped out.

‘Someone would have found your car?’ he repeated, in utter disbelief. “‘Here lie some bits and pieces of Sophie Nash. We know it was her because we found her car.” Some epitaph.’ Then the fact that silent tears were by now pouring down her face and on to his chest apparently penetrated, because he loosened his grasp of her hair and she almost whimpered with relief. But he hadn’t finished. ‘Let me tell you, girl, that you don’t have much of a career as a paparazzo ahead of you if you ignore the simplest safety precautions.’

‘I’m not a paparazzo,’ she protested.

‘You’re giving a very good impression of one. For God’s sake, is a photograph of me so valuable that it’s worth risking your life? Whoever commissioned you must have promised to pay you a very great deal of money.’ He frowned, then rolled over, pinning her against the rock-hard ground, crushing her breasts against his naked chest until she could hardly breathe. ‘Who was it, Sophie?’

Pay? He thought she would do this for money? Days trailing around holiday resorts at the crack of dawn when they were deserted, making the best of hotels so that they should look exotic and desirable holiday destinations, that was what she was paid for.

Her attempt to get a photograph of the great Chay Buchanan while she was on the island had not been for the vast sums paid to professional paparazzi. It had been for something infinitely more precious. For a moment she was tempted to tell him. Ask him... She met his eyes and hope died. Chay Buchanan hadn’t just turned her down when she had wanted to take his photograph. He had been...contemptuous. Anger, determination, sheer bloody-mindedness, had blinded her to the folly, the very real risk, of what she was doing.

She lay, too weak to move, her head thudding with pain from his maltreatment of her scalp. More likely the bang on your forehead, that know-it-all inner voice immediately contradicted her. She would have liked to touch the tender spot, check it out to assess the damage, but his weight fixed her to the spot and she lay quite helpless. She opened her lids to meet the angry onslaught of his eyes.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

She had been stupid. She knew it, was prepared to admit it. To herself. But she certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him so. And she wasn’t going to tell him about Nigel. She had the feeling that Nigel wouldn’t like that at all.

‘I wanted a photograph of you to hang on my bedroom wall,’ she managed to snap out. ‘I’m a fan.’

For a moment he seemed taken aback. Then his lips curved in a parody of a smile. ‘I don’t think so, Miss Nash. I believe it would take a great deal more than that to send you down that cliff.’

‘You’re too modest, Mr Buchanan. Besides, it was easy enough,’ she gasped, but the pain in her shoulder, her head, and torn and bleeding hands made a liar of her. Easy enough getting down.

‘Easy?’ he sneered. ‘If it had been easy you wouldn’t be lying here, you would be racing to Luqa airport now with your ill-gotten gains.’

She lay back against the hard rock. He was right, of course, and now he would take the films and she would have to tell Nigel she had failed, appeal to his sense of honour. A hollow little voice suggested that Nigel was not overburdened with the stuff. But Chay Buchanan mustn’t know how much it mattered.

‘I wasn’t in a hurry,’ she said, as if strolling up a rockface was an everyday occurrence. ‘I was...admiring the view,’ she added, with a slightly wobbly attempt at airiness.

‘You won’t admit it, will you?’ he replied, clearly infuriated by this unrepentant display of bravado. Then he eased himself away from her, letting his eyes trail insolently from a pair of clear grey eyes, by way of a very ordinary nose and a full, over-large mouth, to linger on a bosom that rose and fell far too rapidly. ‘But you’re right about one thing. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the view.’

Sophie felt the colour flood to her face as she realised just how vulnerable she was. Pinned to the ground by his body, she had made not the slightest effort to free herself. ‘How...how dare you?’ she blustered, attempting to fling herself away from him, but he had her effortlessly pinioned between a pair of powerful thighs.

‘Don’t go all shy on me, Sophie. This morning you were quite prepared to offer me anything I wanted for that photograph.’

‘That’s not true! Let me go!’ she demanded. Then, breathlessly, as his fingers brushed against her breast and the tip involuntarily tightened to his touch, she squeaked, ‘What are you doing?’ her grey eyes widening in alarm. ‘Stop it!’

‘You don’t really mean that, Sophie Nash,’ he said, knowing eyes dwelling momentarily on the tell-tale peaks thrusting against the thin white cotton of her shirt. ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed. Sex is the obvious response to a brush with death. It’s simply nature’s prompting to ensure the perpetuation of the species. But I’m afraid that right now I have something else on my mind.’

He flipped open the button of her breast-pocket and removed the film she had stowed there for safety. Then, without haste, not deliberately touching her but making no effort to avoid the inevitable intimacy, he thoroughly searched the rest of her pockets, while she squirmed with embarrassment. ‘Just one roll?’ he said at last.

She swallowed, then, very slowly, she nodded. For a moment he stared at her and she held her breath, certain that he would challenge her, would see the blatant lie. But her cheeks were already flaming from the intimacy of his touch and apparently satisfied he stood up, pulling her to her feet and half supporting her as her legs refused to work properly. He propelled her back towards the edge of the cliff.

‘No!’ She tried to step back but he held her fast, and she was too frightened of falling to attempt to jerk free. ‘What...are you going to do?’ He didn’t answer, but took one gashed and bleeding hand, placed the spool of film into it and wrapped her stiff, rapidly swelling fingers around it. She glanced up at him uncertainly.

‘Throw it into the sea, Sophie Nash,’ he commanded, his words eerily echoing her own thoughts as she had perched on the ledge. But that had been before his hands had ransacked her pockets without a thought for her feelings. And his feelings? her over-active conscience prompted. But she was in no mood to listen to such stuff. He had no feelings. He was just a great big bully.

‘No!’ She defied him.

His hand gripped her arm more tightly. ‘Do as I say.’

‘No, damn you. I worked hard for those pictures. Do your own dirty work.’

That’s rich, coming from someone who spies on other people for a living. Throw it!’ For a long moment she outfaced him, chin high, eyes blazing. ‘Throw it!’ he demanded.

Slowly, almost against her will, she turned to stare down at the white sea boiling around the rocks. It was oddly hypnotic, almost mesmerising. She began to sway towards it, only to be snapped back by Chay with a fierce oath. With a faint moan she turned and buried her face in his chest, and for a moment he held her and she knew he had been right. She could so easily have fallen.

And he was right about something else. Held against the warmth of his chest, almost drowning in the scent of his skin, the sharp tang of sweat and sea-water so strong that she could almost taste the salt, she wanted him to pull her down to the ground and take her, right there in the open air, with the sound of the sea pounding in her ears. The knowledge was as brutal as a slap in the face.

Horrified by desire so raw she could practically taste it, she tore herself away from him on legs weak from more than the terror of falling. It was far more frightening than that. She had to get away from this man. As quickly as possible, and not just because of her appalling reaction to him. He had found one film but she- might still get away with the others. Might still snatch her moment of triumph.

She bent to pick up her bag, wincing as its weight bit into her fingers, staggering a little as the ground dipped and swayed. The feeling was beginning to come back to her hands with a vengeance, the cuts and grazes stinging viciously and making her feel nauseous.

‘Nice try, Sophie. But I’ll have the film.’ He caught her wrist, turning her roughly, and for a moment she thought he had guessed. But he forced open her fingers, still curled tightly around the little cassette, and she cried out involuntarily. For a moment he stared at her hand, then with a sharp impatient movement he said, ‘You’d better come inside and clean these.’

‘I’m all right,’ she protested hoarsely. He hadn’t suspected. ‘I’ll go back to my hotel,’ she said quickly. Except that she’d already checked out. Her bags were in the car. She would be driving straight to the airport where she could clean up and change back into the pristine two-piece she had been wearing when she had called on him earlier. And, once she was inside the departure lounge, she would be beyond his reach.

‘You think you can drive in that state?’ he uttered in disbelief.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said desperately. All she wanted was to get to the car and sit down for a moment, until this sickening weakness passed. She paused. ‘I suppose I should thank you for saving me,’ she added, a little grudgingly.

‘Yes, you should,’ he ground out. ‘But we’re so far beyond the niceties of good manners that I’d prefer it if you didn’t bother.’

Hackles rose at his sharp, contemptuous tone. ‘I won’t! In fact, Mr Buchanan, you can rest assured that I won’t bother you ever again.’

‘I wish I could believe that, Sophie Nash. Why don’t I?’ His eyes fastened on the bag biting painfully into her shoulder, and before she could prevent him he had slipped it away from her and was hefting it thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I’d better keep this to be on the safe side.’

Her grey eyes widened in horror and she flung herself at him, making a grab for the bag. ‘No!’ she cried as he effortlessly whisked it out of her reach. Everything spun horribly from the sudden movement.

‘No?’ he enquired.

‘It’s just my camera. I can’t work without it.’

‘That is supposed to appeal to my better nature? Frankly, I can’t think of anything that would please me more.’

‘I doubt you have a better nature!’ she flung at him.

‘Then you are beginning to show some sense at last.’ He glanced at the bag. ‘This is just your camera? You went to a lot of trouble for just one roll of film. How long were you down on the ledge?’

‘Hours,’ she admitted. ‘But you were only there for a few minutes.’

‘True. But how long does it take with a motor-drive?’

‘Not long,’ she admitted. Then she took a gamble. ‘In fact there are about sixty exposed films in my bag. I’ve been working all week for a tour company, taking pictures for next year’s brochures.’

‘You expect me to believe that?’ he asked.

Her hands were beginning to throb horribly and she lifted them in a helpless little gesture. ‘Why not? It’s the truth.’ She swallowed as saliva began to flood her mouth. Another moment and she knew she would be sick. If only he would let her go so that she could just sit down for a minute. But he was relentless.

‘Come on, Sophie Nash. You can’t expect me to believe that you would risk all that work?’ he said incredulously.

‘Risk?’ Nothing was making much sense. She was the one who had been at risk.

‘You might have dropped your bag while you were climbing down.’

‘I...’ She blinked as he began to recede. ‘I was very careful.’ She took a step, but the ground seemed to be made of foam rubber. Surprised, she reached out a hand to steady herself and he caught it.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to be...’ She lifted her hand to her head and saw the blood running down her fingers. Then, mercifully, everything went black.

CHAPTER TWO

SOPHIE woke with a throbbing head and dry mouth, every part of her aching. The room was dim, what light there was slanting through two pairs of louvred shutters closed on tall windows. She raised her wrist to see what time it was and heard a groan. It was a moment or two before she realised the sound had come from her own lips.

She stared at bruised, swollen fingers, that looked as if they might have been through a wringer, and winced. Her fingers. And memory began to rush back, a little confused, but with the basic facts intact. The slow motion nightmare as she had tried to make it to the cliff-top. And she had nearly made it. Would have made it. Only Chay Buchanan had been waiting for her.

She looked around her at the strange room and then with a rush of horror she knew. She was in the lion’s den. Worse. She groaned, and this time the response was quite deliberate. She was in the lion’s bed.

The thought was enough to drag her protesting body from the smooth linen sheet, but as she propped herself against the great carved bedhead and the sheet slipped from her body something else became startlingly obvious. She was naked. She gingerly grasped the sheet between her fingers and lifted it. Utterly naked. Someone had undressed her.

Who? It seemed vitally important that she remember. Then, rather hurriedly, she blotted out the thought before she did. She didn’t want to contemplate the possibility of her unconscious body being undressed by Chay Buchanan. Instead she focused her attention on her surroundings.

She was in a long, wide room, the stone walls painted matt white, with two large panels, glowing blue-green abstractions of the sea, the only decoration. The floor was of some dark polished wood. On it were laid rich Bukhara rugs, barred with faint stripes of light that filtered through louvred shutters closed over floor-to-ceiling windows. Apart from the bed, flanked by nighttables and a pair of tall Chinese lamps, the only furniture was an enormous chest of drawers with heavy brass handles and an equally impressive wardrobe. A man’s room. Completely devoid of any woman’s touch.

She rose unsteadily, dragged the sheet from the bed, clumsily wrapped it about her with fingers that refused to bend properly and staggered to the bathroom at the far end of the room. Halfway there she questioned her knowledge that it was a bathroom, but with the question came the all too shocking answer. She remembered. And blushed hot and painfully at the memory.

He had brought her here. She had been dimly aware of being carried up a wide staircase. Then he had propped her up and the sudden rush of water had brought her gasping back to life as he had stood with her in the enormous shower-stall, stripping her while the cascade of warm water had washed away dust and sweat and blood.

She tried to swallow, but her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth as she remembered how, too weak to stand unaided, she had simply leaned against him, her head against his shoulder, her breasts startlingly white against the dark tan of his chest. She had been incapable of protest as he had held her around the waist and briskly soaped her with a huge sponge, rinsed her, dried her and wrapped her in a soft white bathrobe and bathed her hands with antiseptic, his fingers gentle, even if the straight, hard lines of his mouth and his angry eyes had made his feelings more than plain.

The mirror alongside the bath reflected bright spots of colour that rouged her cheeks like patches on a rag doll’s face against the whiteness of her skin, the pale gold shock of hair. And he had threatened her with a dungeon. She had the unnerving feeling that his dungeon would be far safer than his bathroom.

But one question was answered. There was no Mrs Buchanan. No wife, however tolerant, would have put up with such goings on. She glanced around, and the lack of feminine accoutrements confirmed the fact that whoever usually shared Chay Buchanan’s king-sized bed she certainly wasn’t a permanent fixture. She forced herself to her feet and opened the bathroom cabinet. Not even constant enough to have left a toothbrush. She quickly closed the door. It was none of her business, she told herself firmly.

But it was too late to blot out the image of his personal toiletries, his exquisite taste in cologne, the fact that he used an open razor.

‘Have you seen enough? Or do you want the guided tour?’

She spun round, then wished she hadn’t as the room lurched sickeningly. She leaned momentarily against the cool richness of Catalan tiles that decorated the wall. Then, as she followed the direction of his eyes, tugged desperately at the sheet, which had shifted alarmingly as she turned, a sudden coolness warned her that it had left her rear exposed. She edged sideways as she caught her reflection in the mirror alongside the bath. How on earth had she got that bruise on her shoulder? She lifted it slightly and the pain brought instant recall of the tearing jerk as he had hauled her over the edge of the cliff to safety.

‘I was looking for some painkillers,’ she said, with a brave attempt at dignified suffering.

His lip curled derisively. ‘Of course you were.’ He took her arm and led her firmly back to the bed. ‘Lie down and I’ll bring you something.’

‘I’m not an invalid.’

‘No, just a pain in the backside. But you’d better lie down before you fall down.’ She sat down abruptly on the bed, but only because her legs were so wobbly. It was nothing to do with his telling her to and she stubbornly refused the cool enticement of a down pillow.

‘If you’ll bring my clothes, I’ll stop being a pain in the—’ she started angrily, then stopped, gathered herself a little. She couldn’t afford to aggravate the man any further. ‘If you’ll bring my clothes, I’ll be happy to leave,’ she said, with exaggerated politeness.

‘Please?’ he suggested.

For a moment her large grey eyes snapped dangerously. ‘Do I have to beg for my own clothes?’ she demanded. He didn’t reply, merely waited. And waited. Apparently she did. ‘Please,’ she ground out through clenched teeth.

‘That’s better. But I’m afraid your clothes are being washed. Perhaps you can have them tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow! But I have a plane to catch—’

‘Had a plane to catch. I contacted the airport and cancelled your booking.’

‘You did what?’ she exclaimed, ignoring the sharp reminder that scythed through her head that anything much above a whisper was inadvisable. ‘You had no right to do that!’ No right to go through her handbag. Look at her personal things.

‘Since you were in no position to use it, and since it’s an open ticket, I thought you might be grateful to have the opportunity to re-book. I suppose I should have known better.’

‘I’m fine!’ she declared, with a careless disregard for the truth. ‘You can keep your washing. I’m leaving.’ She rose a little shakily, hitching- the sheet up and taking a step in the direction of the door only to find him barring her way. ‘Right now,’ she said.

He immediately stood back and offered her the door. ‘As you please. I moved your car into the garage.’

Along with her suitcase with all her clothes. She would have liked to march out, chin high, but the wretched sheet made that impossible. She was all too aware of a mocking little smile twisting his mouth as she edged sideways and backed towards the door. He made no move to stop her but watched her attempt at a dignified departure with scarcely veiled amusement, and suddenly she knew it couldn’t be that easy. She halted uncertainly.

‘But?’ she demanded.

‘But,’ he agreed, his green pirate eyes glinting wickedly. ‘Alas, the keys are not with it. But maybe you’re a dab hand with a hot wire? In your job I imagine it would come in useful.’

‘Of course not!’

‘No? What a pity. Perhaps you should learn. Then again, you would still have the problem of clothes. Because I removed your bag, too. For safe-keeping. Or maybe you don’t mind arriving at a hotel wearing nothing but that rather ineffectual attempt at a sarong.’

She clutched the sheet a little tighter, unwilling to risk dropping it from stiff fingers if she tried to wrap it around her more thoroughly.

‘And since time seems to have passed rather more rapidly than you imagine, I have to inform you that the plane you are so eager to catch left several hours ago.’

Sophie stared at him, then turned to the windows and the light filtering through the shutters. ‘How long have I been here?’ she demanded. ‘What time is it?’ She dropped a glance to her wrist. ‘Is my watch in the laundry too?’ Not waiting for his answer, no longer caring about modesty–after all, he’d already seen a great deal more than her backside–she swept across the room and threw open one of the shutters to admit a whisper of light and stared out. The sea was flat calm, a pale milky blue under a thin veil of mist that curtained the sun. An early-morning sun.

‘I’ve been here all night?’ But it wasn’t really a question. The slightly unnerving answer was confronting her.

‘All night, Sophie Nash,’ he affirmed. ‘Wouldn’t that have made an exciting caption for your photographs? “My night with Chay Buchanan,”’ he offered, with just enough conviction to bring the colour flooding to her pale complexion.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t spend the night with you,’ she said, but her mouth was dry and she steadfastly refused to give in to the temptation to turn and check the other pillow for evidence that the bed had been occupied by two.

‘You did, but it’s all a matter of intepretation, isn’t it? And the doctor insisted that someone must keep an eye on you.’

Her eyes flew wide open and this time she could not help herself. But the swift involuntary glance at the huge bed told her nothing. ‘An eye on me?’ she asked huskily.

‘In case of concussion.’ His long fingers combed back the tangle of sun-bleached curls from her forehead and he lightly touched the dark shadow of a bruise. ‘You took quite a knock, Sophie Nash.’

She winced, raised her own hand to the spot and felt the slight swelling. She drew a long shuddering breath, whether from the pain or the cool touch of his fingers she could not have told–perhaps didn’t want to know. But she did know that it wasn’t possible for her to stay a moment longer in Chay Buchanan’s tower. She drew herself up to her full height, and five feet and six inches in her bare feet had never felt quite so insubstantial. ‘Then I really mustn’t put you to any more trouble, Mr Buchanan,’ she said with all the dignitiy she could muster, wrapped inadequately as she was in nothing but a sheet. ‘I should like to go now.’

‘That isn’t possible. Even if I were prepared to let you go, you’re in no fit state to travel. But if you do as you’re told and get back into bed I’ll go and fetch some of the painkillers the doctor left.’

Doctor? It was the second time he had mentioned a doctor, but she didn’t remember one. She must have taken a much harder crack on the head than she had thought. But right now that didn’t matter. There was something far more important to get straight. ‘What do you mean?’ She dug her toes into the rug as he took her arm, resisting his firm urging towards the bed. ‘If you were prepared to let me go...? You can’t keep me here against my will. That’s...’ Her mouth dried. ‘That’s kidnapping.’

‘Is it?’ Heavy lids drooped slightly, concealing the expression in his eyes. ‘Would you like me to ask the local constabulary to despatch an officer to listen to your complaint?’ he offered, with every evidence of civility. But there was a muscle working dangerously at the corner of his mouth.

‘Yes!’ she flung defiantly, daring him to do just that.

He nodded. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ He gestured vaguely and walked to the door.

‘But...’ She took an uncertain step after him. ‘You’re really going to do it?’

‘Of course. Kidnapping is a very serious charge,’ he said crisply. ‘You should press it home with all the force at your command.’

‘I will,’ she declared. Then her challenge faltered under his unwavering gaze. ‘Why do I feel another “but” coming on?’

‘Could it be that common sense has suggested that you were about to make a fool of yourself?’

‘Why should it do that?’ she demanded.

‘Just think about it for a moment,’ he instructed her. ‘Think about the fact that I rescued you from a very dangerous situation. That I—’

‘I could have managed!’

He didn’t even bother to comment on the absurdity of that remark, but continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘That I brought you to my home, bathed your wounds-’

‘And a great deal else.’ She flushed as his mouth curved in a provoking little smile. Stupid. Stupid to have mentioned that. Why couldn’t she have forgotten that?

‘I bathed your wounds,’ he repeated, ‘before I put you into my own bed and sent for a doctor, who advised several days of rest.’ He paused. ‘It doesn’t sound much like kidnapping to me. But—’ and he shrugged ‘–if you think the police will be interested I’ll get them right now.’ He waited for her response—imperious, tyrannical, scornful and infuriatingly right.

She didn’t need to have it spelled out for her in words of one syllable. He would make himself sound like a hero with her playing the role of an ungrateful idiot. If he threw in the fact that she had been trespassing–she didn’t think he would worry too much about the finer details of truth–he would probably be beatified. Given his own feast-day. With fireworks. Damn! ‘Forget the police,’ she muttered. ‘But I don’t want to rest. I just want to leave.’

‘If you think that having you as a house-guest is an undiluted pleasure, Miss Nash, I have to tell you that you’re mistaken. I value my privacy and you’ll go the minute it’s possible. We’ll discuss terms after breakfast.’ He turned abruptly to leave. ‘I recommend a lightly boiled egg.’

‘A boiled egg? I thought bread and water was the traditional prisoner’s fare,’ she threw after him.

His eyes darkened. Sea-green? Maybe. But what sea? The Arctic Ocean in mid-winter, perhaps? ‘If that’s what you want...’ He snapped the door shut behind him.

‘Wait!’ But she was already talking to herself. Then in a sudden quiver of panic she ran across the room, and ignoring her painful hands almost tore at the door. But it wasn’t locked. For a moment she stood there, in the-open doorway, wondering whether to make a run for it down the thickly carpeted stairway. She glanced down at herself. He wasn’t that careless. He didn’t need a lock to keep her confined. How far would she get in a sheet, without any shoes? Without any money. She retreated into the bedroom and closed the door.

Think, Sophie, she urged herself. You need a plan. Forget the plan, she answered herself a little caustically. What you need first are some clothes. Her glance fell on the chest of drawers and, for the first time since she woke, her mouth curved in the semblance of a smile.

She gripped the brass handle of one of the drawers and pulled, biting back a cry as pain shot through her shoulder where Chay Buchanan had hauled her over the edge of the cliff. She gave up all attempts to cling on to the sheet as she eased it, recalling with a tiny spurt of anger the huge bruise that decorated her back. Monster! He hadn’t needed to drag her up like that. She could have managed. Oh, really? Yes, really, she told the irritating little voice inside her head. Of course she could. But the recollection of that sickening lurch as she had missed her foothold and started to slip made her flesh rise in goose-bumps, and she shivered despite the warmth stealing in through the window as the early morning mist was burned off the sea. She had to get out of here.

She regarded the chest with loathing, but to escape she needed something to wear. This time she grasped both handles and the drawer slid open to reveal piles of beautifully ironed shirts. And this time she really smiled, with an almost irresistible curve of her lips.

She helped herself to a pale blue cotton shirt, easing her painful shoulder up to slide into the sleeve. The shirt was too big, hanging almost to her knees, but that was good. At a pinch, with a belt, she could wear it as a dress. She tried to fasten the buttons, but her fingers were stiff and painful, slowing her down, and she gave up after a couple.

She rifled through the remainder of the drawers, ignoring the ties but helping herself to a pair of thick white socks that would cushion her feet against stone. Pants? She regarded Chay Buchanan’s taste for plain white American boxer shorts with dismay. They would never stay up. What she really needed was a pair of jeans and a belt. Her fingers grasped the handles of the bottom drawer as she heard his voice speaking to someone on the stairs.

She flew across the room to the bed, and as the door opened she was demure beneath the sheet. He backed in with a tray and there was just the slightest hesitation, as he regarded the shirt that now covered her anatomy, before he placed it on the table beside the bed.

‘Feeling a little better?’ he asked.

‘Well enough to leave,’ she replied brightly, ignoring heavy, painful limbs and the overwhelming sense of weariness that her exertions had produced.

‘I think that is a decision for the doctor to make.’

‘Doctor?’

‘He’ll call in to see you later.’ He regarded her thoughtfully as hope betrayed itself in her eyes. ‘He’s a friend, Sophie, so don’t bother to bat those long eyelashes at him. He won’t be impressed.’

‘I’ve never batted an eyelash in my life!’

‘No?’ He sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her impassively. ‘I must have mistaken the signals. I had the distinct impression that you were batting like mad yesterday morning when you asked me to sit for you.’

‘That’s not true!’ she protested. She just hadn’t been prepared for the instant response of her body to the perilous masculinity of the man, the unexpected pull of dangerous undercurrents tugging her towards something new and exciting and wonderful. She swallowed. He had seen it. Was that why his rejection had hurt so much? Because he had quite wrongly assumed that she was offering herself as a reward for his co-operation and had still said no?

He sat beside her on the bed and handed her a cup of tea, holding her clumsy fingers around it with his own. And it was still there. The urgent fire surging through her veins as he touched her. She felt the sudden start of tears to her eyes. It wasn’t fair.

‘Come on, Sophie, drink this,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

‘I doubt it,’ she sniffed. It wasn’t a cup of tea she needed. Her face, her whole body grew hot as she privately acknowledged that what she needed was Chay Buchanan. To be held in his arms, to... Oh, lord! She had always imagined herself feeling this kind of bewildering desire for a man she had fallen deeply, wonderfully in love with.

She buried her face in the cup. She hardly knew this man. And what she knew of him she didn’t like. It was lust, far from pure, and shockingly simple. What she should be doing was standing under a cold shower, not lying in his bed with his warm thigh pressed against hers, separated only by the single thickness of a sheet, his hands wrapped close around hers. Why couldn’t the wretched man wear a pair of trousers instead of those tailored shorts that blatantly offered his well-muscled thighs and beautifully shaped calves to her hungry eyes?

She gulped down the tea and he took the cup from her. ‘Can you eat something?’

‘Bread?’ she asked, making an effort to keep the exchange hostile, but suddenly too weak to care much.

‘The bread, and water will keep,’ he replied a little sharply. ‘Try some toast.’ She shook her head. Then wished she hadn’t. ‘All right. Just take these and lie down.’

She stared suspiciously at the white tablets. ‘What are they?’

‘Paul left them.’

‘Your friendly doctor?’ She withdrew slightly.

‘For heaven’s sake! Do you think I’m trying to drug you? He’s a respected consultant with a wife and considerable quantity of children. These are just something for your headache.’ He glared at her. ‘You have got a headache, I hope?’

Of course she had a headache. She took the pills, swallowed them with the aid of a glass of water that he held for her as if she was an invalid. Then, as the door closed behind him, she gave up the struggle to maintain the façade of defiance, and slid down between the sheets and tried to work out just what kind of a mess Nigel’s ‘little favour’ had got her into.

She hadn’t much relished the task and had left it until the last day...perhaps hoping that he wouldn’t be there. Nigel could hardly blame her for that.

But finally she had driven out along the coast road until she had seen the tower, just as Nigel had described it, four-square and massive, one of the many that had been built on the island to keep watch against pirates. A few in the more built-up areas had been turned into restaurants for the tourist trade. Most were abandoned. This one was surrounded by a garden.

Flowers tumbled from beds raised from the rocky ground and clambered over the walls, making the tower look more like some lost fairy-tale keep. With the impressive golden cliffs at its flanks, and the sea beyond, it had quite taken her breath away.

Close up, the tower had seemed rather more forbidding, despite the softening effect of the flowers, its entrance barricaded by a pair of heavy studded doors. But she had pinned a smile to her lips and lifted the traditional dolphin-shaped knocker.

For a long time nothing had happened. She had been trying to pluck up the courage to knock again when the door had swung open, and the figure that had filled the doorway took Sophie’s breath away for the second time in less than five minutes as every cell in her body had swivelled in his direction and jumped to attention.

She had seen photographs of the man, seen him on the television, but nothing had prepared her for his overwhelming physical presence, a compelling masculinity that drew her to him like iron filings to a magnet.

‘Yes?’ His curt manner released her, her quick step back observed by a pair of knowing eyes that after the most cursory inspection seemed to know more about her than she did herself.

It took every shred of self-possession to keep the smile fixed to her mouth and offer her hand. ‘Mr Buchanan? Mr Chay Buchanan?’ He ignored her hand, and a little self-consciously she pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her cheek before letting her own hand fall. ‘My name is Sophie Nash.’

‘Sophie Nash?’ He tested the name, as if trying to recall it.

‘Yes, I—’

‘Maybe my memory is failing me, Miss Nash,’ he interrupted without apology, ‘but I don’t recall an appointment with anyone of that name.’ His tone invited her to prove him wrong, but with the absolute confidence of someone who knew it to be impossible.

‘Well, no, I don’t have an appointment,’ she admitted, somewhat taken aback by this unexpected challenge.

‘In that case...’ He shrugged, stepped back and began to shut the door.

‘But...Mr Buchanan... I’m...’ Almost instinctively she reached out and held his arm. His skin was warm, very brown beneath the whiteness of her fingers, coated with silky dark hair. She snatched back. her hand as if she had received an electric shock, and when she looked up again his eyes taunted her. But he didn’t shut the door. ‘I’m here because—’

‘I know why you are here, Miss Nash,’ he said, confounding her. ‘Or were you deluding yourself that you were the first eager...fan...to find me? I have to admit that you are more appealing than some.’ And his eyes took a slow tour of her body. ‘From the top of your glossy blonde head to your pink-painted toenails,’ he conceded. ‘Although most have the tact to carry a copy of one of my books for me to sign...?’ He raised a querying brow and glanced towards her bag. But she had no book to offer and silently cursed such a stupid oversight. ‘That’s about all I can do for you.’

She was afraid that her cheeks had gone as pink as the despised toenails. They were certainly very hot and she would have liked to cover them with her hands, but that would be stupid. Would only draw attention to them, and to the fact that she had painted her fingernails as well. Because she had taken a great deal of trouble with her appearance.

‘Wear something pretty,’ Nigel had advised. ‘And plenty of make-up. He can’t resist a pretty face. All you’ll have to do is use that winning smile of yours and you’ll be in.’ Well, Nigel had been wrong. It was true that she wasn’t wearing much make-up. It was too .warm. But the charcoal smudges on her lids emphasised the size of her large grey eyes; the mascara thickened and glossed the lashes. And she had taken infinite care to outline her lips and colour them.

She had no experience of photographing major celebrities and she had been determined to appear cool and professional. Clearly the white sleeveless jacket with its deep revers and the flirty navy and white spotted skirt had been a misjudgement in some way that totally eluded her. But it was too late to worry about that now.

‘I didn’t come here for your autograph, Mr Buchanan. I’m a photographer. I’m sorry if this is an awkward time. I would have telephoned to make an appointment,’ she rushed on, ‘but you aren’t listed—’

‘That,’ he informed her, ‘is because I don’t have a telephone. It’s supposed to be a strong hint that I have no wish to be disturbed by...casual callers.’

She was missing something. What on earth did he think she wanted? Then, with a shock, she knew. He thought she was some kind of literary groupie! It was awful. Off-the-scale embarrassment. She wanted to turn tail and run but she couldn’t. Now she had found him, she had to give it everything she had got. Remembering Nigel’s advice, she tried the smile. ‘Mr Buchanan,’ she surged on, before he could stop her or finally close the door on her. ‘You’ve made a mistake—’

‘It’s you who’s made the mistake, Miss Nash,’ he said harshly.

‘No,’ she protested hotly, determined to disabuse him of his mistaken notion. ‘Please listen. I simply want to take a photograph of you.’ He said nothing. He didn’t move. Not one muscle. It was utterly unnerving. She ran her tongue nervously over her lips as she fumbled in her bag for a card, any excuse to look away from those disturbing eyes. Her trembling fingers finally found what they were seeking and she held it out and eventually he took it, without taking his eyes from her face. ‘You see?’ she said, encouraging him to look at it. ‘I’m a professional photographer.’

If she had thought that this would clear up the misunderstanding, make everything better, she had been wrong. He didn’t even bother to look at her card, simply tore it in two and handed it back. ‘Goodbye, Miss Nash.’

A pin-prick of anger stirred the delicate hairs on the nape of her neck, darkened her fine grey eyes, but she wasn’t about to give up.

‘A friend of mine is writing an article about you... about your work,’ she rushed on quickly, before he could ask what kind of article. ‘I hoped to persuade you to let me take a simple portrait. It wouldn’t take long. Ten minutes. Less,’ she promised. ‘There’s no need to change. You look fine.’ Much more than fine. He presented a picture begging to be taken. His green T-shirt might be old, faded, but it was a perfect foil for his dark colouring, and the sleeves had been ripped from it, exposing strong, well-muscled arms and formidable shoulders; white tailored shorts displayed an equally powerful pair of tanned legs. He looked more like an athlete than a writer.

Still he didn’t move, apparently waiting for something more. She swallowed. ‘I would, of course, be prepared to pay...’ His eyes darkened slightly. ‘Whatever fee you...think fit.’

‘Anything?’ he asked, finally breaking the ominous silence.

‘Anything,’ she agreed recklessly, as he appeared to weaken. She wasn’t about to lose him for a few pounds. Then, realising how naïve she must have sounded, she added, ‘Within reason, of course.’

‘And if I was...unreasonable?’ Suddenly, without the necessity for words, she knew that this was not, had never been, a discussion about money. He had seen her reaction to him, misunderstood, thought she was actually prepared to go to bed with him to get what she wanted. Then, with a jolt, she realised that it was far worse than that. He believed that she wanted to go to bed with him.

Mesmerised by the idea, she remained rooted to the spot, quite unable simply to turn and walk away. Not because so much depended on getting him to sit for her. But because her legs had apparently turned to rubber. His mouth curled in a cruel parody of amusement as he made a move towards her, forcing her to look up or retreat. Sophie had no choice, and as she looked up he lifted his hand, touched the delicate hollow of her neck with the tip of one long finger, his brows lifting just a fraction as she felt the shock start through her body.

‘Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘Such flattering eagerness.’ Then, as his eyes held her fixed like a rabbit mesmerised by the headlights of an oncoming car, his finger traced the line of her breastbone with agonising slowness, until it came to rest against the white linen where it crossed between her breasts. Her lips parted on a sharp, anguished breath as her nipples tightened against the cloth.

‘Nice try, Miss Nash. But your friend should have warned you that I don’t talk to reporters or photographers. No matter how appealing the inducement.’

With a superhuman effort she raised her hand to slap away the fingers that lingered against the soft swell of her breast. ‘How dare you?’ she croaked.

‘Dare?’ He had ignored the slap, but now he withdrew his hand and she could breathe again. Just. ‘For my privacy I would dare a very great deal. I give you fair warning, Miss Sophie Nash, that if I find you anywhere near my home with a camera in your possession, you’ll discover that the dungeon is still a working feature. And that’s where you’ll remain until I decide otherwise.’

Now, lying in his bed, Sophie almost jumped again as she recalled the slam of the great front door. She knew she had to escape. Get away from this insufferable man as quickly as possible. A yawn caught her by surprise, and her lids, suddenly unbearably heavy, drifted shut. It was important. But she would just have a little sleep first.

CHAPTER THREE

SOPHIE woke, stretched, regarded her unconventional sleeping wear with a slight frown and pulled herself upright, wincing as the aches immediately re-established themselves, to confront a pair of dark, inquisitive eyes regarding her with open curiosity. The same dark eyes that had spotted the flash of her lens against the sun. They belonged to a boy of about five. or six years of age who was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed.

‘Hello,’ she said.

He leaned forward a little, excitement barely contained. ‘What was it like?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘On the cliff.’ He flung an arm in that general direction.

‘Oh.’ She wondered what he expected. Breathless excitement and danger? The truth would probably be best. ‘It was hot and dusty,’ she offered, and hid a smile at his open scorn. ‘And very...frightening.’

‘I wouldn’t be frightened,’ he said, clearly dismissing her fears as something to be expected of a woman. ‘I’m going to climb it...one day. All the way.’

The thought made her feel suddenly queasy. ‘Well, make sure you take a rope,’ she advised.

‘You didn’t,’ he pointed out.

‘I was stupid. Your father had to rescue me.’

He regarded her with something like pity. ‘But you’re a girl.’

She could offer no argument to that. Male chauvinism lives, she thought, passed down from father to son. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Tom! What are you doing in here?’ The boy scrambled off the bed guiltily. ‘I told you to leave Miss Nash alone.’

‘I didn’t wake her up, Papa. She did it all by herself. Didn’t you?’ He appealed to Sophie.

‘All by myself,’ she agreed. ‘He didn’t disturb me. Really.’

Chay Buchanan was not to be so easily placated. ‘Go and have your tea. Theresa is waiting for you.’

Tom gave her an uncertain little smile, bravado extinguished. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t be, Tom. Enjoy your tea.’ She watched the door close beind him with regret as she was forced instead to confront his stony-faced father, who leaned towards her and grasped her arm.

‘What were you asking him?’ There was no mistaking the raw anger in his voice, his face, the way his fingers bit into the soft flesh.

‘I didn’t ask him anything. Despite your low opinion of me, I am not in the habit of interrogating children.’

‘You’re suggesting that such a thing would be beneath you?’ he demanded, disbelief stamped in every line of his face.

She glared at him. ‘I’m not suggesting it,’ she retorted coldly. ‘I’m telling it like it is.’ For a moment their eyes clashed.

‘So what were you. talking about?’ The fingers bit deeper and she tried not to wince visibly.

‘He...he asked me about the cliff.’

‘The cliff?’ He paled visibly. ‘What did he ask you?’ There was an urgency about him that intrigued her, despite her attempt to hold herself apart. He gave her a little shake. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘He just asked what it was like. I told him it was frightening and that I had been stupid...’

‘And?’

‘He took the view that I was feeble because I was a girl.’ She paused, then added, because she thought he should know, ‘He said he was going to climb it himself one day.’

‘Damn you,’ he said, through tight lips.

‘Frankly, Mr Buchanan, I don’t think it had anything to do with me. But perhaps some simple lessons in rock-climbing would be a wise precaution,’ she advised, with feeling. ‘Let him have a taste of the pain as well as the excitement.’

He swept his hand through a dark lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘No.’ A muscle was working furiously at his mouth. ‘He’s not going anywhere near that damned cliff.’ He glared down at her. ‘I don’t have to ask how you are,’ he snapped. ‘Obviously a great deal better.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. And some small devil prompted her to add a gentle, ‘Thank you for asking.’ It brought her a sharp look. ‘Quite well enough to leave.’

‘You’ll leave when it suits me, Miss Nash. In the meantime you’ll stay where you are until Paul has checked you over. Don’t say anything stupid to him,’ he warned.

Stupid? Like what? Help me, I’m being held prisoner ? She managed a sweetly insincere smile. ‘What could I say? You’re a hero. A positive saint—’

‘Stop it!’ She shrugged and subsided against the bed. He leaned over her and grasped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. ‘Behave yourself, Sophie Nash. Or I’m warning you, you’ll never see your precious films again. Is that quite clear?’

Oh, wouldn’t it be utter bliss to tell him to take her films and go to hell with them? The temptation was almost overwhelming. But she would have to do the work again, at her own expense. And he didn’t only have her films. He had her camera. And there was Jennie. She hadn’t quite given up on the chance that she might yet snatch her films and run. ‘Quite clear,’ she said demurely.

For a moment he scrutinised her face, as if not quite believing in such a quick capitulation, and she forced herself to meet his disquieting gaze head-on and ignore the sudden quickening of her pulse, the intoxicating sense of her own fragility as she was confronted by the man’s almost barbaric magnetism.

Finally, he released her, but the imprint of his fingers remained burned into her face. She was breathless, her pulse jumping, not quite in control. Unlike her gaoler, who was regarding her without any trace of emotion to disturb his arrogant features. ‘You must be hungry,’ he said prosaically, as if to confirm her opinion. ‘When Paul’s finished with you, come downstairs for supper. Theresa’s made you some soup.’

She plucked at the shirt she was wearing. ‘Could I have some clothes?’

‘Not for the moment. Not until I’ve decided what to do with you.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘You seem to be pretty resourceful. I’m sure you’ll manage.’

A tap on the door interrupted the flash of annoyance that sparked her eyes, threatening to erupt and undo all her hard-won attempts to be civil to the man. Chay rose from the bed and admitted the slight figure of the doctor.

‘Don’t take her blood pressure, Paul,’ he warned as he turned to leave. ‘I have the feeling that it will blow your machine.’

But the doctor did not take the warning seriously. He checked her eyes, listened to her chest, took the dangerous blood pressure and declared it to be fine, delicately probed her shoulder and finally examined her hands.

‘Take it easy for a few days, Miss Nash,’ he finally advised her. ‘Get plenty of sleep and you will be fine.’ He rose. ‘I’ll look in again tomorrow, but I hope to find you outside, sitting in the shade.’ He paused. ‘And stay away from cliffs in future. Particularly that one.’

‘Why?’

Dr Paul Manduca regarded his patient thoughtfully. ‘Some questions, Miss Nash, are better not asked.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow. Good evening.’

Evening? This time she didn’t even bother to query the time. Chay Buchanan had invited her downstairs for supper. If she was hungry. By her somewhat unreliable reckoning it must be at least thirty hours since she had eaten an apple, something to do to break the boredom of the endless wait as she had hoped that Chay Buchanan would take a swim. She had eaten it with the thoughtlessness of someone who knew her next meal would only be an hour or two away. If she was hungry? She swung her legs from the bed. She was ravenous. But before she left this room she had to make herself decent.

She washed, used his comb to disentangle her hair painfully, then quite shamelessly helped herself to a fresh white shirt. Her fingers were hurting less and she made herself fasten all but the top two buttons. Then she tackled the bottom drawer. But there were no jeans. Just sweaters and shorts.

She held a pair of navy shorts against herself. Not bad. She pulled them on, but the minute she let go they fell about her ankles. She glared at them. She wasn’t about to be beaten by a pair of shorts. All she needed was something to hold them up with. A tie. She found the drawer with the socks and ties and quickly threaded one tie through the loops and knotted it firmly in place around her waist. Then she took another, rather beautiful silk tie in deep red and tied it over the shirt, grinning appreciatively at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She decided against the socks. She had the feeling they would rather spoil the effect.

She opened the bedroom door and jumped, confronted with the tower’s disturbing inhabitant. But she didn’t miss the glitter of a pair of vivid eyes as he absorbed her attempt at sartorial elegance, or the deepening of the lines etched into his cheeks.

‘You took so long, I thought that something must be wrong.’

‘Wrong? Whatever could be wrong, Mr Buchanan?’ she enquired smoothly. ‘I was simply taking my time deciding what to wear.’

‘It’s an interesting combination.’ He walked around her, inspecting the result of her raid on his wardrobe. ‘In fact, it’s oddly sexy.’ His eyes met her furious glance. ‘But I imagine it was your sex appeal, rather than your skill with a camera, that won you this particular assignment.’

Sex appeal? The idea was so alien that she was for once left without a reply. She had certainly taken Nigel’s advice and tried to look...tempting...when she had set out to persuade Chay Buchanan to let her take his photograph. That she might have succeeded was disturbing, especially as she was now quite at the mercy of her intended victim.

Sophie sat back and sighed with contentment after eating her fill of a thick vegetable soup in the style of minestrone, but with beans and pork added to it. ‘That was wonderful, Theresa,’ she said, and added two of the few Maltese words she had learned. ‘Grazzi, hafna.’ The middle-aged woman who kept house for Chay Buchanan beamed briefly, before turning on him to launch into a rapid speech in her native tongue. Then she flounced back into the kitchen with the dishes. Sophie watched her go and then turned to Chay. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

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