Liz Fielding - Prisoner Of The Heart

‘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.