Wild and Wanton (6 page)

He leaned his head to one side. ‘Aren't you going to divulge your secret?'

‘I haven't got one. I suppose I'm lucky in that my eating preferences tend toward the kind of food that nutritionists say is good for us. And I don't exercise, as such, but if a place
is
within walking distance, I take a bus or a cab only when time is at a premium.' As she spoke her brain was spinning dizzily in search for some way to resolve the decidedly unreal situation in which she found herself. Inspiration was a long time in coming, but then it hit her in a lightning flash. ‘I might not be photogenic.'

She knew by the dumbfounded look on his face that he hadn't thought of that possibility, which to her was almost as surprising as being picked by him in the first place. Phil had always said that Nick Farraday's brain was a memory bank of useful information, uncluttered by trivial facts, giving him an extraordinary ability to consider even the most minor details of a situation. And the possibility that she wasn't photogenic could in no way be termed a minor point.

She recalled now other things she had learned from Phil. Nick Farraday had built a reputation for being imperturbable, of having that rare ability to detach himself from any situation—such a useful asset in business transactions. So it had been fanciful to imagine a personal component in his decision to employ her as one of his models.

Thoughts of Phil now filled her heart with pain. Her brother had idolized Nick Farraday, and in his own modest way had tried to pattern himself after Nick. To begin with, there was a fleeting physical resemblance between the two
men.
Even before meeting Nick Farraday, Lindsay had gleaned that much from Cathy, and she now saw with her own eyes that it was true. Then, too, Phil had had his hair cut in the same style as Nick Farraday's. Lindsay had got her fair looks from her father, but Phil had inherited their mother's dark color, and his hair had been almost as dark as Nick Farraday's. Phil had also followed Nick's mode of dress, though he hadn't been able to buy as expensively. Lindsay had asked once if Nick Farraday minded. Cathy had replied that it was doubtful he noticed, and if he had, wasn't copying someone supposed to be the highest form of flattery? Anyway, this idol, this supposed giant among men, had brought about her brother's death.

A strange feeling overcame her, a fear that if she tangled with this potentially dangerous man history could well repeat itself, a fear that she could be inviting her
own
destruction.

Chapter Three

‘You've got to be photogenic,' Nick Farraday stated with such conviction that Lindsay had to believe him. If he said something was so, then who would dare to deny him! ‘I'll set up a session tomorrow. The number on the card I gave you will get you straight through to my
secretary.
Call her in the morning, and she'll tell you when to report.'

‘This is pointless. What's the use of going to all this trouble for nothing? Whether I'm photogenic or not is immaterial. You've got the wrong girl. I'm not interested. I like my job and my lifestyle, and I have no intention of changing either.'

‘Quite apart from the ethics of the situation, I'm firmly convinced that other things will make you change your mind. I can promise you a fabulous year. The Allure girl will be seen in all the best places. You'll have beautiful clothes, luxury living, travel . . .'

‘What do you mean by the ethics of the situation?' she asked suspiciously.

‘I don't like being conned, and that's how I'd feel if you went on insisting that you aren't available after implying by your presence this evening that you are.'

‘The goods aren't for sale, Mr. Farraday.'

‘No? I send a lot of work Jim Bourne's way.'

‘Exactly what are you threatening?'

‘I'm threatening nothing. Just stating a fact. If you choose to make more of it . . .' His twisted smile came with an expressive lift of his hands.

‘Get out!' she said.,

The flicker of surprise that pierced his eyes verged on anger. Few people dared to give Nick Farraday his marching orders. Lindsay's own surprise was thus no less than his; but hers
was
tinged with apprehension.

‘That's not a very sociable attitude to take,' he said, looking round for the nearest seat, by chance her prized armchair, and lowering himself into it. ‘I take my coffee black.'

‘I must be getting absentminded. I can't remember offering you any.'

Lindsay knew that, before she had so rudely told him to go, he'd been on the point of departing. Now she had gotten his back up; the stubborn set of his jaw was an annoying indication that only he would determine when to leave, and she was left to make the best of it.

He looked too comfortable in her big, overstuffed arm-chair. It flickered across her mind that he even looked right there, a chilling image. The chair accommodated his long frame, providing adequate resting places for his square, larger-than-average hands. She hadn't bought the chair with a male occupancy in mind, at least not consciously, although she had a strong suspicion that if her subconscious had a voice it might have something different to say. But when she was brought home by a date, the chair had been a big factor in whether or not he was asked in. The picture her mind had flashed back each time had meant that not one of the stalwart hopefuls had ever been allowed through her door. So why did that chair now look hand-picked for Nick Farraday?

She
stormed into the kitchen. Hating her own helplessness at not being able to evict him, she spooned coffee into the percolator and broodingly set two mugs on the table.

A sensation feathered the back of her neck. She looked round to see him standing at the kitchen door.

His regard was thoughtful. ‘I don't understand.'

‘That makes two of us. I don't know why you picked me.'

‘At the risk of sounding repetitious, I've already explained that I'm not looking for the most beautiful woman in the world, nor the most sophisticated, but someone with a certain quality—which you
do
possess. Something rare and elusive that almost defies definition. But that's not what mystifies me. Rather, I'm puzzled by your attitude. The aversion is so thick I could cut it with the daggers your eyes keep throwing in my direction.'

Gulping with relief that he'd only noticed her aversion, she said, ‘You're not harking back to that again, are you?'

‘Yes. I don't like mysteries, and I'll keep at this one until it's unravelled.'

‘I . . .' She looked away. ‘I just don't like being hounded.'

A square finger came out to touch her chin, tilting it upward. ‘Does it seem as if I'm hounding you? If I am, I wasn't aware of it. I don't like being thwarted, so perhaps what's
driving
me could be called hounding you. So, sorry to disbelieve you, but I've no other option. I know that you're reacting to something else entirely. I've never encountered such deep anger in anyone before, not without my doing something to earn it.'

Why didn't she tell him and watch him squirm? What exactly held her back she would never know, but a strange self-protective instinct was advising her not to. Her hand sought a lock of her hair, tugging it as if self-induced pain would atone for the lie. ‘I've already told you, you're imagining things. I have no feelings about you either way. I neither like nor dislike you.'

That response didn't erase the bafflement from his face. ‘It isn't as if I've made a pass at you. I've never laid a finger on you in that way.'

He was surveying her in a searching manner, his disturbingly handsome countenance etched by grim thought. She wouldn't have believed that an expression could alter a face so much. When he smiled, even if the smile was mocking, his face exuded charm. That air of faint amusement, she thought, must come in handy to screen what really was going on in his mind, an asset in both the private and business spheres of his life. It was better than the poker face so many top executives assumed, because instead
of
instilling wariness, it was mesmerically disarming. All this enabled Lindsay to glimpse the underlying strength of his personality. He had said he didn't like being thwarted, and this was painfully apparent. The forcefulness and dogged determination of his character were as blatant as a banner. This man, once crossed, would make a dangerous adversary. His frown caressed her with coldness. Yet even as fear coursed through her, she was overwhelmingly conscious of him in a different, more physical, sense.

‘Not so much as a finger,' he said, holding his finger aloft and poising it in line with her face. Her iced blood warmed, then grew cold again as apprehension held her in its grip. It was almost a relief when the threat became reality and his finger descended on her cheek.

She might not have been as experienced as the majority of women her age, but neither was she a quivering adolescent who had never been touched. Still, no man's hand on any part of her had ever sent such sexual awareness through her body. Her skin pulsed with currents of feeling.

His finger rested for several heartstopping seconds where it had lit, then slowly, as though savoring her skin, moved down her cheek. It occurred to her that the sensitive fingertip must be absorbing some of the feeling it elicited. The sudden, ragged intake of his breath confirmed that suspicion, much to her
dismay.

‘So that's it! It isn't what I've done, but what I haven't done!' he blurted.

‘Of course it's not that,' she said crossly, her voice half strangled by the emotion swelling in her throat.

It stunned her that his innocent touch sent more fire through her than she could ever have imagined possible. It was steam heat, earthy and primitive. Perhaps most humiliating to Lindsay was Nick Farraday's reason for touching her. It wasn't that they had finally rid themselves of the company of other people, whose presence had handcuffed his desires. Nor had he spent the evening looking at her with adoring eyes, panting for the moment when at last they were alone. This was a cold, experimental probe to find out something. Well, they had both found out something. She now knew the full extent of her vulnerability to him. And he was proceeding under the mistaken notion that he now knew the reason for her mood: he had thought she found it irritating that he hadn't tried to make a pass.

What could she do? That question was made irrelevant by the awareness of what
he
was about to do. But in the state of shock that seized her she couldn't summon the energy to deflect the hands reaching out to trap her wrists and bring her forward.

Coming alive to what was happening, she knew that she had to find means to put up a
fight.
She pulled hard to free her wrists, but their freedom brought neither satisfaction nor relief, because he simply shifted his arms until they circled her. She wriggled frantically to avoid contact with the muscled wall of his chest. As the gap between them started to close, the grim mouth above her twisted into a devilish grin, mocking her futile efforts.

‘Well, well! So I was right about the wild and wanton inner you.' An excited gleam pierced the blue intensity of his eyes. ‘This is what you want, so why are you resisting? Are you wrestling with me to add some spice?'

‘Most certainly not!' she screamed at him, furious that everything she did goaded him still further.

She was fighting not only him, but the weakness attacking her limbs. She was losing ground fast. He wasn't the first man to get his arms 'round her, but he was the first who had ever made her vibrate as though charged with electricity. The feeling washing through her was frightening in its intensity. Trying to resist it was as futile as punching air. Suddenly she knew she didn't want to pull away from the tormenting closeness; she wanted to lose herself in it.

His mouth straightened again, not because he had ceased to be amused, but because a smirking, cat-lapping-cream grin did not go with what he had in mind. As his lips lowered to hers, she knew that this wasn't going to be
an
ordinary kiss. She knew it because nothing about this man was ordinary. His lips teased across hers, and again the electricity tingled through her, making her quiver. She was pressed so close to him that he could feel every reaction of her excited, desire-weakened body.

He wasn't holding her quite so fiercely, because it was no longer necessary. There was a sensuous lightness in the fingers trailing a delicate course down her back. She was pressed close of her own volition. This bodily rapport, she thought even in the passion of the moment, was what had been lacking in previous encounters with men. She had wondered why her relationships with men never developed into something deeper and more meaningful. She realized now that the fault had been in herself, in her lukewarm reaction to their advances. Nick Farraday was here showing her what had been missing.

As his mouth left hers a deep sigh rose from her throat, composed of a tangle of feeling which her scrambled brain couldn't immediately decipher: anger, anxiety, regret, and a sense of deep pleasure at the thought of so much untapped joy. If a kiss could do this to her, what would it be like if he made passionate love to her? The picture that flashed across her mind, showing her explicitly what was entailed in ‘passionate love,' turned her knees to water. Shock flooded her eyes at the direction her thoughts had taken.

She
sent him a furious glance. She hated him for doing this to her: for the tingling of her nerve-ends, for the blood scorching her cheeks at the rapid flight her imagination had taken, and for the resulting chaos churning in her head.

‘I think you'd better go,' she said in a voice that shook with a million unshed tears.

‘You're holding out on me about something. I'd give a day of my life, to know what.'

‘I'd give a day of my life never to have met you today. I'd gift wrap it in your precious white and gold and give it to some other unsuspecting female. Except that I don't hate anyone enough to do that.'