Sharon Kendrik - Sweet Madness

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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