Elizabeth Oldfield - Love's Prisoner

‘A hamburger?’ she echoed, in astonishment.

‘Crazy, isn’t it? I’m well aware that there are those who perceive me solely as a commercial proposition,’ he continued, ‘so presumably Kingdom are eager to include me because they believe my name in the blurb will pump up sales?’

‘Well...yes,’ Suzy admitted, wishing he was not so astute.

While they had been speaking, she had undertaken a swift assessment. Not only was Piers Armstrong in good physical shape, he seemed mentally sturdy, too. At a loss? Disorientated? No way. All the other ex-hostages she had met had been psychologically scarred by their experiences and, while his year of captivity had been shorter than some, she had assumed that he too would be altered. Maybe a touch diffident, maybe less certain. The assumption was incorrect. Her erstwhile lover had always been magnificently secure, and he continued to exhibit an indomitable self-assurance. His ordeal appeared to have already been worked through and set aside, which, Suzy decided, must be because his often dangerous career had made him better able than most to cope with stress.

‘So you’re here because of the fistful of dollars factor,’ he said, his lip twisting in derision.

‘Personally I couldn’t care less about any extra money which your inclusion may or may not generate,’ she replied. ‘And,’ she added, feeling compelled to make it clear that any influence he might have once had over her had long since disappeared, ‘the book was started before you were kidnapped, so I had absolutely no reason to think that there would ever be any need to write about you.’

Piers’ shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows and he began to re-roll one which was coming loose. ‘Why choose hostages as your subject?’ he enquired.

‘I didn’t, it was chosen for me,’ said Suzy, watching the movements of his tapered fingers as he tightened the blue cotton over the smooth brown muscle of his arm. ‘When I worked at the Pennant I was assigned to cover the return of first one man and then another who’d been taken captive. Randolph Gardener happened to read my articles, liked them, and contacted me to ask whether I’d be interested in a commission to write a book. As I was growing weary of being sent haring off around the country at a moment’s notice, it seemed like a good idea. Even though it meant giving up a decent salary,’ she added, determined to show he could not pin the charge of ‘gold-digger’ on her.

‘So how do you manage?’ Piers asked.

‘By living off my savings and the interest on some money which my grandmother left me, plus I sell the occasional freelance article and do a regular monthly piece for the Pennant .’

‘What kind of a piece?’

‘Something which offers a fresh angle on a topical news event, either at home or abroad. With regard to my book,’ Suzy went on, deciding she had better say a little more about it, just in case Randolph Gardener should ask, ‘I’ve done five profiles, so far. One features a French businessman who—’

‘Was held for a million-dollar ransom in a cave in the Dordogne,’ said Piers.

‘That’s right. You remember him?’

‘I do.’ Pale grey eyes snared hers. ‘However, while I’ve no doubt the guy must have been overjoyed to merit inclusion in your tome,’ he drawled, ‘there’s no way I would ever agree to you writing about me .’

Suzy’s lips thinned. Engineering his refusal was one thing, being given such a blunt and disdainful thumbs-down was another. She could understand him having one or two misgivings, but there was no justification for him to be so unflatteringly, demeaningly, overwhelmingly anti .

‘You don’t think I’d make a decent job of it?’ she demanded. ‘I may have done women’s page stuff when I was with The View , but if you’d read anything I produced at the Pennant you’d know that when I moved on there I moved into serious reportage.’

A brow lifted. ‘You don’t say?’

‘I do,’ Suzy shot back, piqued to think that knowing her must have had so little impact that, once they had split, Piers had never bothered to read anything she had subsequently written. ‘Do you imagine Randolph Gardener would have given me the commission if I’d been going to scribble away at the soap opera level? No chance. He reckons I have an instinctive perception which has nothing to do with age or experience, plus I’m diligent and tenacious. Maybe I have yet to rise to the heady heights of winning awards like you, but I can assure you that my appraisal of the hostage situation is intelligent, sober and well crafted,’ she informed him fiercely.

‘Congratulations,’ said Piers with such a mocking bow of his head that she felt an acute urge to hit him. ‘However, your writing skills are not the issue.’

‘No?’ she said dubiously.

‘No,’ he replied.

Suzy inspected her watch. The minutes were galloping by, but before she left she needed to know why he was so averse to being included in her book. It would be a book of some value, dammit!

‘You’re anxious to be off?’ he enquired.

‘I have to be in Fulham in half an hour,’ she told him.

‘What’s happening there?’

‘I have appointments to view a couple of flats. Look, about—’

‘You’re leaving your place in Putney?’

Suzy gave a brief nod. ‘About—’

‘Why?’ Piers asked, interrupting again.

‘The house has been sold to someone who wants to turn it back into a family home, so I’m under notice to quit.’ She sighed. ‘I’d found somewhere else and thought everything was settled, but at the last moment the rent was increased and I couldn’t afford it.’

‘When’s your deadline for moving out?’

‘Two weeks today. I’ve been dashing around looking at all kinds of places, but I’ve acquired a few goods and chattels—’

‘I remember your home-making streak,’ Piers muttered.

‘—and finding furnished accommodation with sufficient space to take everything and which is in my price range isn’t easy.’

He strolled back over to the window. ‘You aren’t in the market for shacking up with a boyfriend?’ he enquired.

Suzy shook her head. ‘No.’

Piers slid his hands into the hip pockets of his denims and rested his shoulders back against the wall, a position which contrived to thrust forward his pelvis.

‘Gone prissy in your old age?’ he asked.

She recognised the query as the gibe he intended.

‘It isn’t a question of that,’ she replied.

‘You don’t have a boyfriend?’

‘I do,’ Suzy said quickly.

His question had sounded like a challenge, and to admit to the truth—that she was presently unattached—would have seemed like an admission of failure.

‘The man doesn’t have enough room for you and your possessions?’ Piers enquired.

‘Fraid not,’ she said, wishing he would not stand in a way which had made her aware of the zippered crotch of his jeans and the male outline beneath the stretched denim. In a way which was making her feel short of breath and...distracted.

‘What’s your boyfriend called?’ he asked.

‘Um—’ she searched for a name ‘—Jo.’

‘Jo what?’

‘Manning.’

She did have a friend called Jo Manning, but the ‘Jo’ was short for Joanna.

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Works in an investment bank,’ Suzy said, hastily transferring facts which related to the female accountant to the make-believe boyfriend.

‘If you can’t find suitable accommodation in the next fortnight, what happens then?’ asked Piers.

‘My parents suggested I move back in with them for a while, but Dorset is too far away.’ She grimaced. ‘So—’