‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Declan drawled lazily.

‘I—’ Sam was in danger of kissing his neck, which was temptingly close. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he whispered.

‘Will you let me go?’

‘Moving your hips against me like that is only likely to ensure that I won’t,’ he murmured, and Sam’s eyes widened in shock as she felt his instant arousal against her.

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia to escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

Sweet Madness
Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To the world’s greatest

living photographer—

Alastair McDavid, of Thistle.

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU! You’re Sam Gilbert?’

Sam swallowed, managing a smile. Of all the rotten luck—he’d remembered! ‘Yes, I am. The name’s deceptive, isn’t it? I’m a Samantha, really. But I expect you thought you’d be interviewing a man, didn’t you?’ Now she was babbling.

His eyes, a dark, glittering blue, widened by a fraction—before returning to their shuttered narrowness; seeing all, telling nothing. ‘Hardly,’ he replied, his deep voice full of sarcasm. ‘I wouldn’t have read your c.v. if I thought that, and that kind of sloppy interview technique really isn’t my style.’ He paused. ‘No, it isn’t the name I’m thinking about.’ He looked her up and down, experienced eyes flicking over her briefly. ‘You’re Charlotte Gilbert’s sister,’ he said slowly, and he made the simple statement sound as damning as an accusation.

Of course he hadn’t forgotten; why should he have done? The faintest colour flared pink over Sam’s cheeks as she recalled the other occasion when he’d seen her, just a week ago.

Charlotte had phoned, suggesting lunch. Well, not exactly suggesting lunch—demanding lunch would have been a more accurate description—but done in such a way, with an appeal to Sam’s better nature, and the assurance that only Sam could help her work through her problems, that a refusal would have been not only churlish but impossible. ‘You’ve got to see me, Sam,’ Charlotte urged on the phone. ‘I’m desperate!’

Sam’s reluctance to see too much of her sister stemmed from the time when Charlotte had cold-heartedly run off with Sam’s fiancé. Eight years on, tempers had cooled and Sam had forgiven, if not forgotten. And family was, after all, family. ‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘Where shall we meet?’

‘Luigi’s.’

‘Much too expensive,’ said Sam firmly.

‘Oh, Sam—don’t be so dreary. Let’s go there—it’s fun. And I’ll pay.’

‘No, you won’t—I’ll pay for myself.’

One o’clock found Sam sitting at a table at the side of the room, waiting for Charlotte to arrive. The table was discreet and quiet, the kind of table she was always seated at, though Charlotte was the opposite. She always insisted on, and got, the centre-stage seat.

The waiter brought her a glass of fizzy water and a plateful of crudités and Sam sat munching and sipping until Charlotte breezed in.

She looked, thought Sam, absolutely wonderful—every inch the model she had once been. She was tall, leggy, elegantly boned, with china-blue eyes and the kind of long flaxen hair which Rapunzel would have given her eye-teeth for—all combined to make her a number-one head-turner. She was dressed in a white linen sleeveless mini-dress which showed off the smooth pale toffee colour of her tanned skin. Bare brown legs were finished off with soft white leather pumps.

Sam, who had come straight from the studio, was dressed in her habitual uniform of leggings and a top, both a deep charcoal-grey colour which didn’t show the dirt, but which didn’t actually do a lot for her understated looks, so unlike her sister’s, of dark brown hair with eyes to match, set in a milky-pale complexion.

They ordered food—avocado salad then pasta for Sam while Charlotte opted for melon followed by a grilled Dover sole. ‘I’m dieting,’ she confided.

Much more weight loss and she’d fall through the slats in the chair, thought Sam, but said nothing.

‘And wine—we must have wine!’

‘Not for me,’ protested Sam. ‘I have to work this afternoon.’

‘Well, I don’t. Bring me the wine list, will you?’ Charlotte gave the waiter a dazzling smile, and he sped off to obey her.

They ate their first courses while Charlotte slugged great gulps of wine and proceeded to tear the latest sensation of the modelling world apart. ‘It almost makes me feel like starting up again,’ she said moodily, taking another sip from her glass, the liquid leaving her lips shimmering.

Sam speared a curve of chicory. ‘Well, you can’t,’ she said practically. ‘You’ve got Flora to look after. And you still haven’t told me why you wanted to see me so urgently today. What’s the panic?’

‘Bob is.’ Charlotte drained the glass and had it refilled immediately.

‘Bob?’ It was, Sam reflected, almost amusing that Charlotte should be so insensitive as to ask Sam’s advice about the man she had seduced away from her without compunction. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘You mean apart from the fact that he’s dull, stuffy, totally wrapped up in golf and takes me for granted?’

‘You did marry him,’ said Sam rather pointedly, but the remark went completely over Charlotte’s head. She had almost finished the bottle and was now slurring her words slightly.

‘I need someone who understands my needs,’ she said dramatically. ‘Someone who—my God! Look who’s here!’

Sam cast a sideways glance then wished she hadn’t because, just entering the restaurant, accompanied by a stunning redhead, was the man popularly coined ‘the thinking woman’s fantasy’, Declan Hunt, the acclaimed photographer. The man who, having made a mint in the States, was back in London with his secretary to set up a brand-new photographic studio.

And the man who was interviewing Sam next week for the prestigious post of his assistant.

‘It’s Declan Hunt, isn’t it?’ she said, keeping her voice deliberately casual, as she observed Charlotte’s eyes glittering avariciously, wishing that something, anything, could transport her a hundred miles away from here.

‘Mmm,’ said Charlotte lasciviously, running a pink tongue over frosted lips. ‘Sure is. Wonder who the overblown Amazon with him is, though.’

Sam looked at her sister aghast. ‘What a dreadful expression to use,’ she objected in a whisper. ‘And apart from anything else, it’s completely inaccurate. The woman’s an absolute stunner.’

She was, too, tall, with beautiful long limbs and a shapely, magnificent bosom. Her hair was naturally auburn by the look of it and it fell in thick waves past her shoulders. She was wearing a kind of Sherwood-green jerkin and trousers tucked into brown leather boots which made her look like a very sexy bandit indeed.

‘Huh,’ said Charlotte, and, taking a last swig, she rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘Well, let’s give her something to think about.’

‘Charlotte—where the hell are you going?’

‘To see my old friend and colleague, dear Declan.’

Sam watched in silent humiliation as Charlotte weaved her way over to their table and shrieked, ‘Declan!’ to the darkly tousle-haired man whose brief frown indicated to Sam that, for a moment, he couldn’t remember her sister from Adam.

This was soon rectified by Charlotte, who reminded him in a voice loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear. And here Sam bent her head, scarlet with shame, as Charlotte threw her arms around his neck and clung to him like a limpet.

She saw him shoot an apologetic look over his shoulder at the redhead whom Charlotte had pointedly ignored, before disentangling Charlotte firmly and indicating with a polite glance at the table that he wished to proceed with his meal.

Unfortunately, that was not to be an end to it. Charlotte came back to her own table, obviously disgruntled, and hell-bent on re-establishing her reputation as a femme fatale. And it seemed that her intentions to discuss her marriage problems with Sam had flown right out of the window, since Bob was not mentioned by her again, and any attempt by Sam to reintroduce him into the conversation was firmly quashed. Instead, she flirted like mad with the men on the next table, before allowing the two braying merchant bankers with their striped shirts and gin-flushed faces to join them, bringing with them a bottle of champagne.

As their laughter grew louder and more uncontrolled, Sam looked up, aware of being caught up in the dazzle of a hauntingly bright stare, as blindingly mesmerising as the headlights of a car on a pitch-black night. There was a renewed wail of affected laughter from Charlotte and her conquests, and an unmistakably derisive twist appeared on the hard, cold mouth of Declan Hunt—before he turned away, bending his head to listen to the beautiful redhead who was whispering into his ear with an amused smile. And it wouldn’t take three guesses to imagine what she was saying to him, thought Sam gloomily.

Her torment ended only when Bob, Charlotte’s husband, appeared at the door of the restaurant, with Flora, their daughter. And while Charlotte went off to repair her lipstick in the powder-room, Sam hurried over to her niece to sweep her up in a bear-hug, and have lots of wet kisses pressed enthusiastically into her neck.

‘You’re so good with kids, Sam,’ said Bob, a touch wistfully, when the small hairs on the back of her neck started prickling as she became instinctively aware that she was being stared at, and, once again, she raised her head to look in the direction of the man who stared, frozen in time as he surveyed her with a pair of puzzled blue eyes.

Sam came back to the present to find that the eyes which studied her now were not puzzled; anything but. They were faintly disapproving.

‘So you’re Charlotte Gilbert’s sister,’ he repeated.

‘Yes. We don’t look alike.’ We aren’t alike, she wanted to say, but you couldn’t very well denigrate your sister to a total stranger.

‘No, you don’t.’ The eyes held her in their thrall, piercing and direct, like twin blue swords.

That day in the restaurant, he had been wearing a dark and superbly cut suit with a dazzlingly white collar and a tie and, barring the thick and unruly waves of his dark hair that had stubbornly refused to lie flat, he had looked the epitome of elegant sophistication.

But today he looked different. Today, he was dressed from head to foot in denim, with the dark hair curling untidily over the collar of his denim shirt, and the blue of the material only emphasised the cold blueness of his eyes. The denim of his jeans was faded to a paler blue, the fabric stretched almost indecently over long, muscular thighs which seemed to go on forever . . . Today, he was worlds away from the man she had seen in the restaurant. Today, he looked earthy, an innate sexuality shimmering off that lean physique like a haze.

Sam gulped. ‘About that day—’ But he silenced her with a shake of his head, so that all those tangled curls moved with a life of their own.

‘That day had little enough to commend it without raking it over any further,’ he said coldly. ‘Tell me, do you make a habit of going on long, boozy lunches and picking up total strangers? It could get you into all kinds of trouble.’

She half wanted to say, I’m not like that—I was sober! But something in his high-handed manner angered her. Why should she attempt to defend herself to him? He probably wouldn’t give her the job now in any case. And, even though she had been embarrassed by Charlotte’s behaviour at the time, now she perversely felt a sudden stirring of loyalty. Charlotte had been out of order, yes—but, from the disapproving expression on Declan Hunt’s face, anyone would have thought that they had both stood up on a table and performed a striptease!

She stared at him, her dark brown eyes sparking with insurrection, wondering how he would terminate the interview, when she decided that she would not give him that pleasure. ‘It’s all right, Mr Hunt,’ she told him, with an attempt to sound at her most reasonable. ‘I quite understand that you probably don’t want to consider me for the job now.’

The flamboyant swoop of one ebony brow curved up by a fraction. ‘Oh? And why’s that?’

‘You obviously disapprove of how I conduct my social life—’

But he interrupted her, with a small humourless laugh. ‘Do you really think,’ he began, ‘that I only ever employ people of whose lifestyles I approve?’ He rubbed his neck at a bare piece of skin, visible through the top button being open, and she found herself noticing where the tanned column of his neck became shadowed with dark whorls of chest hair. ‘If I did that, Ms Gilbert, I can assure you that I would be chronically understaffed.’ He put his head a little to one side, and stared at her consideringly, as if lining up a shot for the camera. ‘I must admit that I do have reservations about you—but the company you mix with isn’t one of them.’

Robin, her current employer, had told her bluntly that he was a difficult man, and she had been prepared to overlook that, making allowances for his genius behind the camera—but the reality of his caustic tongue had her senses sizzling with indignation. ‘What reservations?’

He gave the smallest shrug, and Sam was irritated with herself for noticing that even that slight movement drew attention to the breadth of his shoulders, giving definition to the interplay of muscle which rippled beneath. Again, she was caught in the crossfire of his gaze.

‘Well, firstly—there’s your size,’ he commented.

‘My size?’ She stared at him in bewilderment, for the briefest second experiencing every woman’s universal fear—that he was accusing her of being fat. ‘What’s wrong with my size?’

‘You’re very small,’ he said lazily. ‘Quite tiny, in fact.’

Sam unconsciously drew herself up to her full height and tossed her head back, so that the heavy bob of her mahogany hair swayed like a wheatfield in the wind. ‘I’m five feet three inches,’ she pointed out. ‘That’s hardly midget class.’

The rugged features remained unconvinced. ‘And you probably only weigh around ninety-five pounds.’

She mentally crossed her fingers. Didn’t they say that a woman was allowed to lie about her age and her weight? And if Declan Hunt had some kind of problem with petite women, then lie she would. After all, she did want the job—and she didn’t want him thinking that she was some undersized weakling, although she had to admit that standing in front of a man who was so big, and broad, made her feel decidedly more fragile than usual. ‘I’m a hundred and ten,’ she lied. ‘And my size surely has nothing to do with my ability to handle a camera. Right?’

‘Wrong. And I’ll be handling the camera mostly, not you. I need an assistant, not a partner—and certainly not a liability. Someone to carry my equipment—hump it up and down stairs, into cars, over fields. I do not want to spend valuable time when I could be assessing the light quality worrying that you’re going to give yourself a hernia, or, even worse, to find that you simply can’t hack it and manage to drop a load of valuable and very expensive equipment.’

More used now to the intensity of that stare, Sam met his gaze squarely. ‘Try me,’ she challenged.

There was a brief smile as he acknowledged the challenge, and the dark, tangled head was nodded in the direction of a large silver box. ‘Carry that camera over to the other side of the studio.’

The studio was vast and the box weighed a ton, but she would have died sooner than let him know that, and besides—her slight looks were deceptive. The squash she played twice a week had strengthened her, so that her ‘tiny’ frame—as he had called it so disparagingly—was surprisingly strong without being in the least bit sturdy. With a serene smile she accomplished his instruction. ‘How’s that?’ she questioned guilelessly.

He sat down on one of the two facing leather sofas, his long, denim-clad legs sprawled out in front of him, a careless movement of his hand indicating that she should sit opposite him. ‘Well, that’s reservation number one disposed of,’ he conceded.

‘And number two?’

He gave a small sigh. ‘Much more fundamental, and not so easy to reconcile, I’m afraid.’

She felt as though she was wandering through Hampton Court Maze, trying to follow his thought processes. ‘And it is?’

‘That you’re a woman.’

‘That I’m a woman?’ she repeated, slowly and deliberately, so that there could be no mistake, mentally composing a letter of complaint to the Equal Opportunities Commission.

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t like women?’

For the first time, he laughed, and for the duration of that laugh all Sam’s indignation fled. Because the effect of that laugh softened the hard angles and planes of his face into the kind of sensational, sexy look which would knock women down like ninepins, and momentarily did the same for Sam. She felt as if some invisible punch had hit her solar plexus, robbing her not just of oxygen, but of reason, too. And yet with some unerring sense of self-preservation, she didn’t show the slightest glimpse of her reaction, merely set her face into disbelieving lines as she waited for his reply.

‘On the contrary,’ he drawled. ‘I love women.’

And some! She acidly noted his use of the plural.

‘Love them, that is,’ he continued, ‘except at work.’

Not trusting her instinctive response to such out-and-out chauvinism, she forced herself to adopt logic. ‘But you work with models all day,’ she pointed out, ‘most of whom are women.’

‘Different women, and in short bursts.’

‘So what’s wrong with one woman—constantly?’

‘Every bachelor’s nightmare,’ he murmured, half to himself, before looking up, his fingers locked as if in prayer, his eyes watching her face very closely. ‘Women are emotional creatures, Ms Gilbert, don’t you agree? And they tend to let their emotions get in the way of their work. It’s a fact of life—the way they’re made.’

‘Perhaps you could be a little more—explicit,’ Sam spluttered incredulously.

‘Sure.’ The ecclesiastical attitude of his hands changed as he moved them behind him to rest his head on them. ‘Tell a man he’s made a mistake, and what does he do? He learns from his mistake. Tell a woman the same thing, and what does she do?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Hunt, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

The firm lips gave a cool imitation of a smile. ‘She usually bursts into tears. Do you deny that?’

She could understand some women crying, especially with a man like this around to provoke them. Frankly, if she were incarcerated with Mr Declan Hunt all day long, she might just consider taking out shares in Kleenex! Not that she was likely to be incarcerated with him. She was destined for the door, no doubt, but let her leave him believing her to be a cool cookie. She mimicked his cool smile with one of her own. ‘Some women, perhaps, Mr Hunt. Not this one.’

Another cool smile. ‘So you’ve been working for Robin Squires for—how long?’

‘Nearly two years.’

‘My ex-boss,’ he observed, an indefinable note in his voice. ‘Tell me why you want this job so much,’ he said suddenly.

Did it show that much? she wondered. Was her hero-worship of this man’s work so apparent? She looked into his eyes. They had fenced for the whole of the interview; she probably didn’t stand a chance. She had lied about her weight and let him carry on thinking that she behaved as outrageously as her sister, but she respected him enough as an artist to give him her reply from the heart.

‘I want to work with you,’ she said simply, ‘because of your book—The Innocents.’

His eyes shuttered like the closing of a lens, and his features became stony-cold—as forbidding as if they had been hewn from granite. ‘I don’t do that kind of work any more,’ he said, and there was a new, harsh note to his voice.

My, but he was touchy! She wondered what she had said that was so wrong, and struggled to make amends. ‘No. I know. But you can. You’re capable of it, and that’s enough for me.’ She was aware that she had raised her voice, speaking with all the zeal that his masterpiece of a book had inspired in her when it had first been published three years ago. That book had changed her life in a way. Because of it she had gone to work for Robin—she had wanted to learn from the man who had taught Declan. And now, today, she was here with a chance of working for the man himself—if she hadn’t blown it.

There was a long silence she didn’t dare to disturb.

Still resting his head in his hands, he had tipped back so that he was now looking at the ceiling. When he lowered his head to look at her and spoke again, the harshness had disappeared, the cool drawl returned.

‘I’m a fashion photographer now, Ms Gilbert. No more, no less. If you’re looking for something deeper, something more meaningful, then you can walk out of this door right now.’

She held her breath.

‘If, on the other hand, you want to learn how to take good professional fashion shots, then I’m your man.’

This last flat statement none the less sounded so like every woman’s fantasy about Declan Hunt that Sam’s thoughts were thrown into such confusion and she thought she must have misheard him.

‘Wh-at?’

He gave her a look which might almost have indicated that he was in danger of changing his mind, so Sam forced herself to ask as casually as she could manage, ‘You’re offering me the job as your assistant?’

He nodded. ‘If you want it.’

Oh, she wanted it. No doubt about that; what puzzled her was why he wanted her. ‘But why me, a woman, after all you said about women?’

He frowned, then leant forward to the black folder which was on the table in front of him. It was her portfolio. He took out a black and white photo and held it up.

‘Because of this,’ he said, then, possibly to temper what sounded like unconditional praise, proceeded to tear it to pieces. ‘Oh, it’s crude,’ he amended, ‘in terms of composition. It’s over-exposed and poorly lit. And yet . . .’

‘Yet?’ she prompted, tentatively—marvelling how his whole demeanour had changed when he spoke about the photograph—his face suddenly mobile, a certain animation about him as he gestured with the fine-boned, long-fingered hands. As though he had lost himself in the picture.

‘Like all good pictures, it tells a story.’ He fixed her with a sudden swift searing look. ‘An unusual story, and one which I can’t work out.’

Sam had been snapping children at Flora’s birthday party, capturing the extremes of children’s behaviour—the joy, the tears and the tantrums—but Declan Hunt had picked on the portrait of Flora herself taken two years ago, when she was only five. She’d given that shy smile which so rarely lit up her face, but even while smiling there came across the rawly vulnerable streak which lay at the heart of the child.

‘She’s sad,’ he said softly.

Sam’s throat constricted. Was it that plain? Or only to him—with those eyes which had been trained to see through to the core of every subject? What child wouldn’t be sad with parents constantly caught up in their own private war? ‘A little sad, perhaps. I must have caught her on a bad day,’ she lied baldly, aware that he was waiting for more, but she wasn’t prepared to give him any more.

His eyes narrowed, as if exploring his own possible explanations for her reticence to expand on the subject. ‘I should have asked if you have any outside commitments?’ he probed. ‘Anything which would prevent you from giving less than a hundred per cent to the job? My hours are more demanding than Robin’s ever were.’

She looked at him, her dark eyes huge with query. ‘Such as?’

‘A husband and daughter?’

She looked down at the photograph of Flora he was still holding, then down at her hands, a quick movement which hid her eyes, and then it suddenly clicked what he had inferred. Dear heaven—he was referring to the incident at the restaurant the other day. She remembered holding Flora tight, hugging her against her chest and then looking up slowly, some sixth sense telling her that she was being watched, to find that intense blue gaze upon her. Did Declan imagine that Bob was her husband, Flora her child? Oh, the irony if he did—for he couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d tried.

‘Flora is my niece, Charlotte and Bob’s child. Bob—the man you saw—is Charlotte’s husband, not mine,’ she stated, then gave him a determined smile. ‘If you’re offering me the job, Mr Hunt, I’d like to accept.’

‘Declan, then. Welcome.’ He held out a hand and she did the same, allowing him to enclose her own in his firm, warm grip, aware of some thrill of recognition striking deep within her as flesh met flesh, and her conventional thanks flew out of her head as she was rendered speechless by the impact.

Dear heaven, she remonstrated silently once more, as the dark blue eyes surveyed her with nothing more than curiosity, is this how much of a prude you’ve become, that a man’s touch can threaten to knock you right off balance? It was a simple handshake, nothing more. A deal sealed. Say something quickly, before he changes his mind.

‘Thanks—Declan.’ Exit on dry wit, she thought, and smiled. ‘And I do want to reassure you that I promise to sublimate all those unattractive feminine qualities which you find so incompatible with work.’ Except that somehow sublimate seemed to be entirely the wrong word, for his eyebrows arched arrogantly as she uttered it.

‘Take most of what I said with a pinch of salt, Sam.’ There was a glint of unholy devilment in those sea-dark eyes. ‘I’m not really such an out-and-out chauvinist—but I haven’t the easiest manner in the world when I’m working. Just testing that you could cope with it.’

So his provocative comments had all been his own bizarre form of interview technique! Sam glowered, tempted to—what? Her pulses were singing with temper—surely it was temper?—and she waited for him to speak, because she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to say anything that wasn’t grossly insubordinate, when at that moment the telephone rang.

He picked it up, listened, smiled, said, ‘Fran!’ as though someone had just told him he’d won the national lottery. ‘Just one minute,’ he said, then put his hand over the receiver. ‘Phone my secretary tomorrow. Start date—when? A fortnight?’

‘A month.’

He shook his head. ‘A fortnight. I’ll see you then.’ And he gave her a polite nod of dismissal, continuing his conversation with ‘Fran’—whoever she was—the knockout redhead he’d been with in the restaurant probably, thought Sam with unwelcome resentment.

She left the studio, trying to walk normally across the vast floor area, which was difficult when she knew that those enigmatic eyes were watching her, wondering why she should not be feeling like whooping for joy that she’d just landed a job with one of the world’s greatest photographers.

Because joy was too strong a word to describe her feelings. Too strong and too simple.

She’d never come out of a job interview like this before, as churned up inside as if someone had just put her through the wringer. But then she’d never met a man like Declan before.

A brilliant man who was so abrasive, so unsettling.

And sexy as hell.

CHAPTER TWO

‘WHY didn’t you warn me?’ Sam swung round to face Robin accusingly, the large silver hooped earrings she wore swaying wildly, like swings in a bird-cage.

‘Warn you about what?’ asked Robin, mock-innocently, a grin on his face.

‘Him! Declan Hunt. He’s unbelievable.’

‘I did warn you—I told you that he was a genius. And a bastard. I thought that three years of working in the States might have tamed him a little, but apparently not.’

Something in Robin’s eyes prompted her next question. ‘What’s he like?’

He shrugged. ‘Who really knows with Declan? He’s an intensely private man. I gave him his first job, you know. It’s funny—even at eighteen I knew that he had the talent to go right to the top, to outclass anyone else of his generation.’ He smiled at her. ‘So he’s offered you the job, huh? And naturally you’ve accepted.’

Sam shrugged, knowing that she would never share with Declan Hunt the kind of easygoing working relationship she had with Robin. ‘I’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t think so, but then I’m biased, aren’t I? I’d rather have you stay here, with me.’

Sam smiled at Robin Squires. Though at fifty he was around two decades older than Declan, he too wore the ubiquitous denim. His broad cockney accent was an affectation, since he came from one of England’s most aristocratic families, and it was this that set him apart—since many clients were still impressed by someone who not only took good pictures, but had a title, too.

She shook her head regretfully. ‘Oh, if only I could—anything for an easy life—but this girl’s career is demanding to take off, and Declan Hunt provides the world’s best launching pad.’ She frowned. ‘He told me that my being a woman worried him, that he finds them emotional to work with.’

Robin looked at her quickly. ‘He said that?’ He picked up an eyeglass to scan a whole sheet of tiny ‘contact’ photographs, and remarked almost casually, ‘You know that Gita used to be his assistant?’

Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. ‘Gita?’ she verified. ‘His assistant? Your Gita?’

Robin put down the eyeglass. ‘There’s only one Gita.’ He gave a kind of blank smile. ‘Isn’t there?’

Yes, indeed. Robin’s exquisite Indian wife had been the model of her decade, retiring much too early, according to the pundits.

Gita.

With those wide dark-brown-velvet eyes that a man could lose himself in, silky skin the colour of milky coffee, and long, aristocratic limbs. And as Lady Squires, Robin’s wife, she now had a different career—that of society beauty. Her two homes were always being featured in magazine and newspaper articles. And no race meeting was considered anything if Gita was not there, wearing one of the millinery creations for which she was famous.

These days she rarely ventured near Robin’s studio, and on the few occasions that Sam had met her she had found her stunning, aloof—and very slightly terrifying.

Sam frowned. ‘I had no idea that Gita did photography before she started modelling.’

‘Why should you have known? It was way before your time, and it’s not something that I particularly broadcast. Anyway, she wasn’t his assistant for very long. Declan saw her potential, decided she was wasted behind the lens—he took some shots and the rest, as they say, is history. They became overnight successes, and never looked back. In the beginning, she wouldn’t let anyone else photograph her, which only added to his, and her, mystique.’ He shot her another glance. ‘You knew that they were involved, didn’t you? Emotionally, as well as professionally?’ He spoke the words quickly as if to get them over with, like a child gulping down a particularly nasty dose of medicine.

Sam shook her head, surprised by the sudden, inexplicable lurching of her heart. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She was curious to know more, and yet, at the same time, strangely reluctant to hear it. ‘Was it—serious?’

Robin gave a laugh which sounded forced. ‘Very. The beautiful couple with the world at their feet. They could have been the Taylor-Burton combination of the photographic world.’

‘But I don’t remember reading anything about it,’ said Sam slowly.

‘You wouldn’t have done. Declan is a man who guards his privacy well. He managed to keep the affair out of the tabloids, much to Gita’s chagrin. She is—’ he gave a rueful smile ‘—a keen self-publicist.’

‘So what happened between them?’ Sam was bursting with a need to know, then realised that Robin might consider it prying. ‘Unless you’d rather not talk about it?’

But he shook his head. ‘Our hero became disillusioned with the glitzy world of glamour photography and decided to do something meaningful with his life. This caused fireworks with Gita. She wanted a man at her side, not on the other side of the world. She gave Declan an ultimatum, which basically boiled down to if he did go and work in a war zone then it was all over between them.’

‘And he . . .?’ asked Sam tentatively.

Robin laughed. ‘Declan’s not a man you can tame, or bribe. He went right ahead with his plan. Naturally, being Declan, he excelled at photo-journalism, too. As you know, he became something of a national hero, when his war photographs were taken up by news agencies all around the world and were credited with achieving peace negotiations, where everything else had failed.’

‘And—Gita?’ probed Sam hesitantly.

‘Oh, Gita.’ He paused. ‘I’m afraid that the war lost him Gita, because while he was out getting shot at she decided to marry me.’

‘But—why?’ said Sam, without thinking, then saw his face and could have kicked herself. ‘I’m sorry, Robin—I didn’t mean—’

He shook his head. ‘I had something which Gita wanted.’

‘What do you mean?’

He laughed. ‘Oh, come on, Sam! A title. She’s an ambitious lady, is my beautiful Gita, and marriage to me meant instant entry into the English aristocracy.’

‘But wasn’t Declan your—friend?’ she asked haltingly.

Robin gave a wry smile. ‘In as much as anyone could be a friend to Declan. He isn’t like other people. There’s something that sets him apart. Even Gita said that. You mean did I feel bad about stealing his girl?’ He laughed again, that same empty laugh. ‘Oh, I didn’t feel great about it; I should have resisted, but Gita is a fairly irresistible lady. She wanted me, and what she wants she usually gets.’

‘And did Declan—I mean—do you still speak?’

Robin looked at her in surprise. ‘Oh, Declan isn’t a man to bear a grudge. “The best man won” was what he said at the time. But whether Gita would agree, now that he’s back, I’m not sure,’ he finished in an undertone which Sam had to strain her ears to hear.

She set about making coffee for them both, still puzzled by what Robin had let slip. Had he been implying that Gita was still carrying a torch for Declan? And what of Declan’s feelings for Gita?

Sam shook her head and sipped her coffee. It’s none of your business, Sam Gilbert, she told herself sternly, as she went into the dark-room to develop a film.

She started work exactly a fortnight later. The journey from her flat in Knightsbridge was not exactly long, or arduous, but she took care to rise at least an hour earlier than she needed, and caught the Tube to Declan’s studio.

She had been back there just the once, when he had given her a key, and introduced her to the one other permanent member of his staff, and she had been amused to note that his reservations about working with women were backed up by fact, since his secretary-cum-receptionist was a man! Michael Hargreaves was a couple of years younger than his boss, well-spoken, and exceedingly polite—he probably had to be to compensate for his boss’s shortcomings she thought. He also, according to Declan, spoke four languages with ease, and had a heftily impressive Classics degree from Oxford. So quite what he was doing in a rather dead-end job as secretary she couldn’t imagine.

She had thought that she’d be there before Declan, but as she pushed the door open she was greeted by the sight of his undeniably attractive posterior, clad in clinging black denim, as he fiddled around with a maze of thick black wires on the floor, and she was startled by the tingling as the little hairs at the back of her neck prickled in response to him. For Sam, it was an entirely new and not very welcome sensation, this blatantly physical response to a man she neither really knew nor particularly liked.

‘Get me a screwdriver from out of the tool-box, would you?’ he ordered abruptly, without turning round.

He obviously didn’t believe in the red-carpet treatment, she thought crossly, as she draped her satchel over the back of a light-stand. A ‘Good morning, Sam—welcome to your new job’ wouldn’t have cost him much. ‘Where is it?’

‘Believe it or not, it’s the large box in the corner, cunningly marked “tools”,’ he returned sarcastically.

She walked over to the tool-box, opened it, and extracted two screwdrivers which she thought would do. ‘But “tools” could mean anything, don’t you think?’ she answered, matching his sarcasm, with a sudden need to show him that she could give as good as she could get. ‘For all I know it could be where you keep your supply of beer.’

‘Come over here,’ he said, completely ignoring her last remark, and indicated the space next to him. ‘I need you to hold this wire for me.’

She crouched down beside him, and took the wire he’d pointed at, aware suddenly, and almost painfully, of his closeness. He was so close that she could detect some faint scent of lemon—soap, probably; somehow she could not imagine a man like Declan Hunt splashing aftershave all over that impressively shaped neck. So close, in fact, that she could see a minute scar which traced a thin line down one cheek, and just below it his razor had just slightly nicked a tiny spot of blood at the curve of a jaw which was both strong and sensual. A newly shaved jaw, but one where the shadow of the new beard would shortly reappear. He looked, she thought, like the kind of man who would probably shave twice a day and still have a darkly shadowed jaw . . .

‘Far be it from me to interrupt your little reverie . . .’ he drawled.

To her horror, she realised that he had been speaking to her, and she hadn’t heard a word of it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she babbled quickly. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Hmm. Well, don’t daydream on my time.’

‘I won’t.’ Well, if he had noticed her gazing at him like a soppy puppy, at least he had the decency not to draw attention to it.

He rose to his feet, and she did the same, a sudden flare of excitement running through her involuntarily which made her cheeks grow hot as she noticed that he was subjecting her to a similar kind of scrutiny—the only difference being that he didn’t look in the least bit puppylike. His eyes were narrowed as they swept over her, his face indifferent.

‘Wear something a little more suitable tomorrow, will you?’ he said shortly.

Sam stared at him with what she considered righteous indignation, hoping that it might rid her of this crazy excitement. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard. I’d like you dressed in something more substantial tomorrow.’

She glared at him. She had dressed with care for her first day. Nothing over the top, but she had thought it perfect—a fine-knit dark-caramel-coloured sweater which went well with the dark mahogany of her bobbed hair, slim-fitting black leggings, and short black ankle boots. ‘What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?’

He smiled, but not with his eyes. ‘What are you wearing underneath your sweater?’

‘Wh-at?’

He shrugged. ‘You wanted to know what was wrong with your attire, and I’m about to tell you. It happens to be a perfectly legitimate question.’

And a perfectly redundant one, she thought with mortification as she realised just what he meant, because her nipples were pushing hard and painfully through her flimsy bra against the thin material of her sweater, as visible as if she were freezing cold. Only here, in his studio, she wasn’t the slightest bit cold, which left only one other and highly disturbing reason for their tingling tightness.

Their eyes met in silent acknowledgement of her unwitting response to him, hers smouldering with resentment at this unwelcome power he wielded, his coolly indifferent, as though such a reaction was par for the course, and certainly nothing to get excited about.

This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me, Sam thought desperately, as the colour flared in her cheeks, feeling more vulnerable than she’d done for years, knowing that her face was on the verge of crumpling; and perhaps he saw it, for he made a small terse exclamation of something that sounded like surprise underneath his breath.

‘You know,’ he mocked softly, ‘for a woman who kicks up a storm with strange men in restaurants that’s a pretty good imitation of a little maidenly embarrassment.’

He can think what he likes, she thought fiercely, her confusion vanishing as anger took over. ‘You still haven’t told me why what I’m wearing isn’t suitable.’

He sighed, clearly bored with the conversation. ‘It’s simply that I do a lot more location work than Robin. You’ll be outside a lot more. Those clothes are fine, but not for clambering up ladders and striding across muddy fields. So tomorrow, wear something else. Denim is the most practical. Thick sweaters. Oh, and—’ his eyes skimmed her breasts with lazy amusement ‘—thermal vests might be a good idea, too.’

Why wouldn’t he let up? Did he enjoy baiting all women like this? She couldn’t imagine Gita putting up with such taunts, and in that instant she decided to try her own form of retaliation.

‘I forgot to tell you that Robin said to send his regards. He was saying that he and . . . Gita haven’t seen you for a long time. Not since before you went to America, I believe?’ she asked with innocent interest.

The effect was instant, and his reaction both gratified and sickened her as she saw his mouth tighten into an aggressively arrogant line, a brief and indeterminable light flaring before his eyes slit into dull shards. And, interestingly, a pulse started to throb at the base of his throat. It seemed that, just as hers had done, his body too was now betraying him. He was suppressing it, but there was more emotion written on that harshly handsome face than she’d seen there before. And all inspired by Gita’s name. He’s still in love with her, she thought flatly. And he’s back. No wonder Robin was looking so uneasy.

The dark blue eyes bored into her like steel drills. ‘That’s really nothing to do with you, is it?’ he said in a cutting voice so designed to put her in her place that she flinched. He glanced pointedly at the clock on the wall. ‘Do you think if we’ve dispensed with all the social niceties you could actually get down to doing some work? Or did Robin pay you to just stand around looking decorative?’

What was she doing? Answering him back, stirring up trouble—all designed to put his back up, and why? Just because she was angry with herself for reacting to him so powerfully? Bad start, Sam.

She decided to try to make amends. ‘What would you like me to do, Declan?’

Declan looked as if he could quite happily have strangled her before firing her on the spot, thought Sam unhappily, though she doubted whether he’d be so lacking in circumspection as to leave himself in the lurch without a replacement.

‘We’ve got a shoot this afternoon. You can start by tidying the dark-room and replenishing the solutions. After that you can check the lights and load up my 34mm and 2 and 1/4 sq cameras. And you’d better see whether we need any new backdrops—the rep’s coming this afternoon. And when you’ve done all that you can make yourself some coffee. I’ll be out for most of the morning—I want to check out a location. After that I’m having lunch with the head of an ad agency. I’ll be back after three, in time for the shoot. There’s a whole stack of films in the dark-room which need developing and printing. Any problems—and there shouldn’t be—just ask Michael. Oh, and don’t bother stopping for lunch until you’ve done everything I’ve asked for.’ His face indicated that he thought this highly unlikely, and, with nothing more than a brief nod which bore no courtesy whatsoever, his long-legged frame swung across the studio, and out.

CHAPTER THREE

YES, sir, thought Sam, as she watched Declan slam the door behind him, the pleasant smile fixed to her lips disguising her resentment at the way he had barked out his instructions. Drudge is my middle name.

But she set about the tasks he’d set her like a dervish, determined to redeem herself in his eyes.

Michael arrived a couple of minutes later, stuck his head round the studio door and gave Sam a wide grin. At least here’s someone who’s friendly, she thought, and gave him an answering smile.

He went straight away into his office at the front of the building, where he sat down at the computer and started tapping away, in between what seemed to Sam like the first of a hundred phone calls.

But although Sam worked hard, she scarcely seemed to notice how the time flew by; her thoughts were full of Declan, and the way she seemed to be reacting to him. It was as though all the feelings which she had put on ice as an eighteen-year-old after Bob’s sickening betrayal had come to invade her years later, only the strength of those feelings seemed to be tangibly and shockingly stronger. But she had loved Bob, had been engaged to marry him—and yet she hadn’t experienced anything like this kind of reaction with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And some!’

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

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

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Ask me.’

‘Ask you what?’

‘Why I’m working here.’

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

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

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

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

Sam stared at him. ‘Seriously?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Everything to your satisfaction—Declan?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is this your first job?’

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

‘My second, actually.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR

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

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

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

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

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

‘That bad, huh?’

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

‘The genius being Declan Hunt?’

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

‘And the price is?’

‘That he’s impossible!’

‘You should work well together, then!’

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

‘Of course not, Sam!’

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

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

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

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