Wild and Wanton (8 page)

It had been an added sadness to Lindsay that Phil had died so tragically only a week before she got here. Cathy had been waiting for her when she arrived. She was not the warm and lovable woman of Phil's letters, but a woman with a mechanical, frozen smile, despair-glazed eyes, and a heart filled with bitterness and hate. This was the Cathy whom Lindsay still knew.

Phil's demanding job had only permitted him to make rare weekend visits home. Although Cathy had accompanied him a couple of times, there hadn't been enough time for Lindsay to get to know her well. Lindsay had wondered if her brother wrote so many letters to ease his conscience, or, and possibly this was nearer the mark, simply because he liked writing letters. At first he'd written reams about Cathy, about her sweetness and warmth and gaiety, until Lindsay felt that she knew her and come to love her as Phil did. But the birth of their daughter, Stephanie, had denied Cathy her status as sole object of Phil's attention. For the last two years of his life, his dominant concern had been Stephanie's growth and antics. He had doted on his daughter. So it wasn't just for Cathy's sake that Lindsay wanted to stay. She
wanted
to be on hand to see her niece grow up, as Phil no doubt would have wished.

Jim Bourne's defection had weakened Lindsay's resolve. She needed to sit back and gather her resources in order to do battle. She was doing just that, she told herself, as she entered the sumptuous, air-conditioned luxury of the chauffeur-driven car that had been sent for her. For the time being it was easier to pretend that she would go along with Nick; she would do the tests. Perhaps she wouldn't be any good and would be dismissed without much ado. How she hoped that would be so.

She was taken to a studio and handed over to a fashion expert, who put her in a simple white dress that was virginal in its purity, but which in no way disguised her womanly allure. Then a makeup girl took over and set to work with amazing skill and dexterity. When she'd finished she gave Lindsay a hand-mirror. Lindsay hardly recognized the face that stared back at her.

The cameraman had ginger-colored hair, light blue eyes, and a freckled, friendly face. His smile was infectious, tempting her own lips as he came forward to greet her. He walked with a limp.

‘Hi! Bob Sheldon here. Sure glad to meet you.'

The
man himself was unfamiliar to her, but the name was not. At Jim's request, she'd contacted him herself for photographic sessions, and her models unfailingly gave him a good report. One of them, Ami, was more than a little sweet on him, and now Lindsay knew why.

‘Lindsay Cooper. The pleasure is mutual.' She meant that; she liked him on sight, even though she wished they'd met in different circumstances.

‘Lindsay Cooper.' He repeated her name, musing over it. ‘Of the Bourne Agency?'

‘Yes.'

‘We've spoken on the telephone.'

‘That's right.'

‘Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought you were solely on the administrative side.'

‘I am.'

‘Lucky break?'

‘No. I'm here because of a man who won't admit that he's wrong.' She gave a sketchy explanation of the circumstances. ‘It's utterly ridiculous, my being here. I've never heard anything like it before.'

‘No? Well, I have. Some of the greatest models in the business have been discovered by accident. Cross your fingers and hope you can come across as well. Not that I've any doubt; you seem to be a natural.'

‘Would it surprise you to know that I don't want to come across well? I intend to freeze
before
the camera. I can't get through to Mr. Farraday, so I want him to see for himself what a mistake he's made.'

‘Are you on the level? Don't you realize what a wonderful chance this is for you?'

‘So everyone keeps telling me. I don't want it. I happen to be content with my lot.'

‘Really? Chin up, honey, and look to your left.' Lindsay obeyed automatically and blinked at the bright flash as the camera clicked. ‘Haven't you ever thought you might be missing out on something? I know some people are perfectly happy to plod along the same old road. At least, they say they're happy, and in some cases they even manage to fool themselves. But in reality they haven't the guts to accept life's challenges.'

‘It's not like that at all. I've got plenty of spunk. And I'm not afraid to accept a challenge. Perhaps, in other circumstances, I might have been intrigued by the idea of changing course. But I don't like the way I'm being swept along. I like to feel in charge of my own destiny.'

‘Do you think that's possible?' Bob Sheldon asked, clicking away as he spoke. ‘Turn your head a bit to the left, will you? That's great. Hold it. Now throw your shoulders the other way. That's fine. Relax for a moment.'

‘I make my own decisions,' Lindsay said stolidly, rubbing the back of her neck.

‘Even if they're the wrong ones?'

‘I
bet you wouldn't let anybody, not even Nick Farraday, push you around,' Lindsay said, picking up the conversation some time later, after a session of being told to sit, stand, walk, run up a short flight of stairs, look forward, look up, look down, smile, frown, etcetera.

‘Don't bet your shirt on that; you'd lose it. I've been pushed around in my time, kicked down . . . and been glad to be picked up and have someone tell me what to do. If it hadn't been for . . .'

‘Yes?'

He was absently running his hand down his left leg, the one that caused his limp. When he wasn't smiling his boyish appeal disappeared, and the fine lines of suffering etched round his eyes and mouth came into greater prominence. ‘You're not hiding the fact that you aren't exactly wild about Nick Farraday.'

‘That's perfectly true,' Lindsay retorted coolly.

‘Well, you just happen to be looking at the number one member of his fan club.'

‘He collects fans easily,' Lindsay said scathingly.

‘You reckon so? Maybe some he does. This one he collected at considerable personal danger. Sometime, if I'm ever in the mood, I might, just might, tell you all about it.'

Lindsay felt that she had been put through a grinder, mentally as well as physically. She hadn't liked meeting with Bob Sheldon's
disapproval,
and she wished she'd kept her thoughts to herself. What was this strange power that Nick Farraday had over people that even someone as seemingly sensible as Bob Sheldon seemed to regard him as a god? Well, she wouldn't be taken in. She was aware that Nick Farraday was casting his powerful spell over her, but she would fight it. If Phil were still alive Bob Sheldon would have to take the number two place in the Nick Farraday fan club, because no one had adored him more slavishly than Phil had. She knew what had become of her brother when he realized his idol had feet of clay.

She doubted that the paces she had been put through were much more arduous than her own exacting job, but it was a kind of work she wasn't used to, and she felt drained and exhausted. Her face felt as if it were permanently fixed in a grotesque parody of a smile, and there wasn't a part of her body that didn't ache after the unnatural poses she had had to maintain. Her legs felt stretched; her thighs and ankles rebelled at the unaccustomed things that had been asked of them.

Having changed into her own clothes, she emerged from the building and walked wearily toward the car which had brought her there and had dutifully returned to take her home. Her coach hadn't turned into a pumpkin, she thought, feeling a bit like Cinderella after the
clock
had struck midnight.

To her acute consternation it wasn't Baxter, the man who had chauffeured her earlier, who alighted to open the door for her. Neither was it her Prince Charming.

‘What are you doing here?' she asked Nick Farraday incredulously as her heart sank.

‘Reward time. I thought we'd have a nice quiet meal somewhere. Later, maybe, we could take in a few night spots.'

‘Count me out. All I'm good for is bed.

‘I'm an amenable guy. If you won't go along with my suggestions, I'll fall in with yours.'

‘I'd see you fall into the sea first, in shark infested waters at that, before I'd let you fall into bed with me.'

He settled her in the car, walked round and slid his long frame behind the steering wheel. He switched on the ignition, but before pulling into the stream of traffic he cast her a long, somber look. ‘Shark-infested waters? You don't mean that.'

She was intensely grateful that he didn't seem to expect a reply.

Even as she seethed at his overbearing arrogance in refusing to believe that she didn't crave his company, she felt more confused than ever. She couldn't respond like this to him. Nick Farraday might not have taken a pistol to her brother's head, and no court would ever convict him of murder; yet he was responsible for her brother's death. If Phil had
never
met him and idolized him to such an extent, he would be alive today.

‘I won't be bullied. I have a mind of my own. No one, not even you, can take me over like this. It was weak of me to agree to that test. Even if the verdict is good, I'm not right for your project. Find someone else. I'm not interested.'

‘Was it very gruelling?' he asked in mock sympathy. ‘Was Bob too hard on you? He does tend to be a perfectionist.'

‘No doubt he was only carrying out your instructions,' she interposed sourly.

‘You'll feel better after you've had a pleasant meal and a chance to unwind.'

‘No,' Lindsay said, wishing with all her heart that her voice carried more conviction.

How could she convince this powerful, domineering man that she wasn't interested in him? The answer suddenly came to her with a clarity she could have done without. Oh for those rose-colored glasses! Before she could convince him of her lack of interest, she had to convince herself.

Chapter Four

No way was Nick Farraday going to be kept at the door. Resignedly, Lindsay handed over her key and accepted the fact that he was coming
in
with her. At the same time she fumed at the way he assumed authority.

‘Take a shower. I'll make some coffee. That should perk you up.'

Lindsay hoped she looked calm and unworried as she nodded in agreement, thinking it better to do that than resist and then have to give in and do as he instructed. She was finding out the impossibility of saying no to a man who didn't know the meaning of the word.

It wasn't until she was standing naked in the shower that she considered the fact that her bathroom door didn't have a lock, and with that came the realization of the vulnerability of her position. She realized it, but felt no quiver of alarm at the possibility of an unwelcome intruder. She knew with absolute conviction that he wouldn't suddenly burst in on her; that wasn't his style. She felt oddly and disarmingly safe with the confounded man. But a frown came over her face as she wondered why. She couldn't come up with an answer—not one that suited her, at least.

He was still puttering about in the kitchen when she quietly left the bathroom, feeling like a mummy in the huge towel she had wound round herself. She slid into her bedroom. What could she wear? Definitely not the black dress which he had said should be worn behind closed doors for just one man's appreciation. She didn't want to give him those
kinds
of ideas. Once again she deplored the fact that her wardrobe was geared more to her working life than social occasions. The yellow dress would have to do.

It did very well, she decided a short time later. The silky material followed her soft curves, fitting closely on her hips and fanning out in a sunburst of soft pleats as she walked. The color deepened the tawny gold of her eyes and particularly accentuated the silky paleness of her hair. She left the narrow thread of ribbon that usually contained it on her dressing table; her hair floated round her shoulders like moonlight.

Nick Farraday looked up as she walked into the kitchen. ‘Your shelves were in a dreadful muddle. Don't know how you manage to find anything. I've rearranged things.'

‘You had no business to. It was my muddle, and I liked it,' she snapped. She assured herself firmly that she was piqued because of his high-handedness and not because he had made no comment on her appearance.

He handed her a mug of coffee. ‘Drink this, and then we'll be on our way.'

Suppressing the desire to throw it in his face, she took a sip.

‘To your taste?'

It was the best coffee she had ever tasted. ‘It'll do,' she said indifferently.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘Don't apologize. Good coffee-making is
an
art.'

‘At which I excel. I was apologizing for not saying how gorgeous you look.'

The compliment she had wanted brought an unwelcome flush to her cheeks. Or was it the assessing look that had accompanied it?

‘I can't for the life of me fathom why Luisa can't see it. It's all there. Everything another woman would envy and a man would want.'

‘Stop it. You're making me blush.'

‘I noticed. Shall we make tracks?'

‘Do I have a choice?'

‘Now that you mention it . . . no.'

It was a bitter truth, but her sarcasm had failed abysmally to put him in his place; on the contrary, he seemed to thrive on it. As she picked up her coat and purse there was a defiant gleam in her eyes. She didn't know how she was going to get the better of him, but she was determined to think of something.

The only sound as they made their way downstairs was the clatter of feet. Lindsay wasn't sulking, although her uncharacteristic silence might have been so interpreted. It was just that she felt incapable of thinking up the kind of bright, casual remark that would get conversation going. Nick Farraday might have made some attempt at social banter, but he seemed to be momentarily lost in some thoughts of his own. One heavy eyebrow was lifted in slight perplexity, as if something about the overall situation gave him cause for
resentment.
Perhaps he was reflecting on Luisa's obdurate attitude where Lindsay was concerned, and wondering how to turn the tables and get her to agree with him.