wouldn’t it be utter bliss to tell him to take her films and go to hell with them? The temptation was almost overwhelming. But she would have to do the work again, at her own expense. And he didn’t only have her films. He had her camera. And there was Jennie. She hadn’t quite given up on the chance that she might yet snatch her films and run. ‘Quite clear,’ she said demurely.
For a moment he scrutinised her face, as if not quite believing in such a quick capitulation, and she forced herself to meet his disquieting gaze head-on and ignore the sudden quickening of her pulse, the intoxicating sense of her own fragility as she was confronted by the man’s almost barbaric magnetism.
Finally, he released her, but the imprint of his fingers remained burned into her face. She was breathless, her pulse jumping, not quite in control. Unlike her gaoler, who was regarding her without any trace of emotion to disturb his arrogant features. ‘You must be hungry,’ he said prosaically, as if to confirm her opinion. ‘When Paul’s finished with you, come downstairs for supper. Theresa’s made you some soup.’
She plucked at the shirt she was wearing. ‘Could I have some clothes?’
‘Not for the moment. Not until I’ve decided what to do with you.’ He regarded her steadily. ‘You seem to be pretty resourceful. I’m sure you’ll manage.’
A tap on the door interrupted the flash of annoyance that sparked her eyes, threatening to erupt and undo all her hard-won attempts to be civil to the man. Chay rose from the bed and admitted the slight figure of the doctor.
‘Don’t take her blood pressure, Paul,’ he warned as he turned to leave. ‘I have the feeling that it will blow your machine.’
But the doctor did not take the warning seriously. He checked her eyes, listened to her chest, took the dangerous blood pressure and declared it to be fine, delicately probed her shoulder and finally examined her hands.
‘Take it easy for a few days, Miss Nash,’ he finally advised her. ‘Get plenty of sleep and you will be fine.’ He rose. ‘I’ll look in again tomorrow, but I hope to find you outside, sitting in the shade.’ He paused. ‘And stay away from cliffs in future. Particularly that one.’
‘Why?’
Dr Paul Manduca regarded his patient thoughtfully. ‘Some questions, Miss Nash, are better not asked.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’ll see you again tomorrow. Good evening.’
Evening? This time she didn’t even bother to query the time. Chay Buchanan had invited her downstairs for supper. If she was hungry. By her somewhat unreliable reckoning it must be at least thirty hours since she had eaten an apple, something to do to break the boredom of the endless wait as she had hoped that Chay Buchanan would take a swim. She had eaten it with the thoughtlessness of someone who knew her next meal would only be an hour or two away. If she was hungry? She swung her legs from the bed. She was ravenous. But before she left this room she had to make herself decent.
She washed, used his comb to disentangle her hair painfully, then quite shamelessly helped herself to a fresh white shirt. Her fingers were hurting less and she made herself fasten all but the top two buttons. Then she tackled the bottom drawer. But there were no jeans. Just sweaters and shorts.
She held a pair of navy shorts against herself. Not bad. She pulled them on, but the minute she let go they fell about her ankles. She glared at them. She wasn’t about to be beaten by a pair of shorts. All she needed was something to hold them up with. A tie. She found the drawer with the socks and ties and quickly threaded one tie through the loops and knotted it firmly in place around her waist. Then she took another, rather beautiful silk tie in deep red and tied it over the shirt, grinning appreciatively at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She decided against the socks. She had the feeling they would rather spoil the effect.
She opened the bedroom door and jumped, confronted with the tower’s disturbing inhabitant. But she didn’t miss the glitter of a pair of vivid eyes as he absorbed her attempt at sartorial elegance, or the deepening of the lines etched into his cheeks.
‘You took so long, I thought that something must be wrong.’
‘Wrong? Whatever could be wrong, Mr Buchanan?’ she enquired smoothly. ‘I was simply taking my time deciding what to wear.’
‘It’s an interesting combination.’ He walked around her, inspecting the result of her raid on his wardrobe. ‘In fact, it’s oddly sexy.’ His eyes met her furious glance. ‘But I imagine it was your sex appeal, rather than your skill with a camera, that won you this particular assignment.’
Sex appeal? The idea was so alien that she was for once left without a reply. She had certainly taken Nigel’s advice and tried to look...tempting...when she had set out to persuade Chay Buchanan to let her take his photograph. That she might have succeeded was disturbing, especially as she was now quite at the mercy of her intended victim.
Sophie sat back and sighed with contentment after eating her fill of a thick vegetable soup in the style of minestrone, but with beans and pork added to it. ‘That was wonderful, Theresa,’ she said, and added two of the few Maltese words she had learned. ‘Grazzi, hafna.’ The middle-aged woman who kept house for Chay Buchanan beamed briefly, before turning on him to launch into a rapid speech in her native tongue. Then she flounced back into the kitchen with the dishes. Sophie watched her go and then turned to Chay. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.
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