Читать книгу A Passionate Deceit - Kate Proctor - Страница 7

‘JUST stay close by me and if there’s anything I need you to do I’ll let you know,’ said Sandro as Tessa stumbled after him down the winding path to the beach in the virtual dark of the bitterly cold morning.

To think that she had spent half the night tossing in sleepless dread of this encounter, she marvelled disgruntledly, whereas he obviously hadn’t lost any sleep over what had happened between them on their last meeting.

She had been relieved when he hadn’t appeared for dinner the previous evening, but had soon noticed that someone else was also missing.

‘That woman we saw earlier—isn’t she staying here?’ she had enquired of Babs.

‘You mean Angelica Bellini,’ her cousin had replied with a grin. ‘And what you’re really asking me is where are she and Sandro.’

‘No, I’m—’

‘And, given what you’re up to,’ Babs had continued relentlessly, plainly enjoying herself, ‘that’s not the sort of question I’m prepared to answer.’

‘You know perfectly well my intention is to do a serious article on his professional habits, not something salacious on his love life.’

‘What, in the hope that Ray Linton will print it?’ Babs had chortled. ‘Who do you think you’re kidding?’

There was no sense to be had from Babs when she was in that irritatingly flippant frame of mind, so she had let the subject drop. But her cousin’s teasingly exaggerated secrecy had left her with the impression that the director could well be romantically involved with the elusive Angelica, which, if true, and given his earlier behaviour, indicated that he more than deserved his infamy as a womaniser.

‘Are you sure you’ll be warm enough dressed like that?’ asked Sandro, eyeing her slim, jeans-clad legs when he turned and waited while she negotiated the last of the rock-hewn steps on a particularly steep and twisting section of the path.

‘Quite sure…Good heavens!’ she gasped as the beach below came into sight—a beach that was a hive of industry, littered with men and equipment of every shape and size and bathed in the illusion of bright sunlight by a blinding array of arc lamps. ‘I’m not sure what I expected,’ she whispered dazedly.

‘But nothing like this,’ he laughed, the indulgence in his tone surprising her almost as much as the sight below. ‘Come on, let’s get you down there and introduced to the grim realities of producing fantasy.’

It was only the bitter cold of the January morning that brought any grimness to the proceedings, she had decided a couple of hours later when, chilled to the marrow, she was taking a mental inventory of the meagre wardrobe she had brought with her. The only answer she could think of, to prevent a repeat of the physical agonies she was experiencing, was to wear everything she had brought in layers next time. But not even the piercing bitterness of the wind, nor the fitful drizzle of rain, could detract from her feelings of exhilaration. She was utterly absorbed in what was going on around her, fascinated beyond her every expectation—even though all she was doing, she realised, was watching them line up the shots they planned taking of the incomparably beautiful scenery.

‘I’m sure you must be finding all this rather boring,’ Sandro called, his broad shoulders hunching against a sudden scurry of wind as he strode back up the beach towards her. ‘But you’ll soon get the hang of what’s going on.’

Tessa smiled and shook her head as he reached her. ‘Of course I’m not bored,’ she protested, then felt her heart skip several beats. The wind dancing through the inky darkness of his uncovered hair lent an air of almost piratical raffishness to the already dramatically exotic figure he cut. ‘I’m finding it all fascinating,’ she added unsteadily, thrown by the overwhelming impact he was suddenly having on her.

‘But we’re not doing anything,’ he laughed with a flash of faultlessly formed white teeth. ‘We’re—’ He broke off, the laughter dying to grimness on his face. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ he demanded icily.

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she stammered, colour flooding her cheeks. ‘It’s just that I was thinking how like a pirate you looked, walking up the beach—not that I have much idea what a real pirate would look like.’

‘A pirate?’ he enquired, the grimness fading from him. ‘A pirate in designer ski-wear?’

‘I’m sorry—it was rude of me,’ muttered Tessa, limp with embarrassment and feeling only marginally relieved that he had accepted her outlandish excuse for so openly gawping at him.

‘You don’t have to be sorry,’ he laughed. ‘Paolo will love that; he’s convinced pirates must have operated from here in the olden days—’ He broke off and bellowed something in Italian to the man standing behind a camera on the shoreline, receiving only an impatiently dismissive wave of the hand in reply.

‘When I say we’re doing nothing,’ Sandro chuckled, ‘that’s not quite accurate. What’s happening is that Paolo’s artistic temperament is being indulged.’ He smiled as Tessa cast a bemused look in the direction of the cameraman. ‘There’s something ticking away in his head as he’s shooting the bay right now. I’ve little idea what it is, but I’ve told him to get on with it anyway.’

‘But…’ began Tessa, then thought better of it.

‘But what?’

‘It’s just that I thought a director—well, directed, and that everyone else carried out his instructions.’

‘That’s how it is, for the most part,’ he replied easily. ‘But I’m not given to playing God with crews the calibre of mine. When a man of Paolo’s genius behind the camera has a hunch, it’s more often than not an inspired hunch—I’d be a fool not to indulge him.’

Tessa was mentally nodding as she returned her gaze to the camera. Almost the first thing she had noticed was the atmosphere of relaxed camaraderie in which so many different nationalities interacted. But the apparent effortlessness of such interaction was, she now realised, due to the taut professionalism of the highly skilled men involved and their obvious respect and affection for the man whose creative genius co-ordinated their skills.

‘Do you always work with the same crew?’ she asked.

‘I tend to pick my crews from a fairly narrow circle,’ he replied. ‘Unfortunately there are times when lack of availability forces me to compromise—though where cinematographers are concerned, if Paolo or a guy by the name of Umberto Bellini wasn’t available, I’d probably choose to wait till one or the other was.’

‘Umberto Bellini—wasn’t he the man hurt in an accident on one of your films?’

‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Poor Umberto—’ He broke off, a guarded expression coming to his face before, to her complete bewilderment, he began speaking in Italian.

It was only when she realised he must be addressing someone else that Tessa turned round, appalled awareness flitting unguardedly through her mind of how ghastly she must look as she saw approaching the tall figure of the woman she had fleetingly glimpsed the previous day.

‘Have you two met?’ asked Sandro, a discernible edge to his tone as he switched back to English.

‘No, we haven’t,’ said the woman, her smile accentuating the striking beauty of her face as she removed a gloved hand from beneath the elegant tartan wrap draped around her. ‘It’s so good to find another woman here,’ she murmured in perfect, slightly American-accented English as she shook hands with Tessa. ‘You must be about the only female crew member not to have succumbed to this dreadful flu.’

‘Tessa isn’t a member of the crew, she’s just kindly agreed to fill in for Carla,’ said Sandro before Tessa had a chance to speak. His mouth tightened to a grim line when Angelica made a teasing-sounding comment to him in Italian. ‘I don’t think Tessa speaks Italian,’ he stated with brusque pointedness.

‘Oh, I am sorry!’ exclaimed Angelica, placing a placating hand on the sleeve of Tessa’s rain-soaked anorak. ‘That was terribly rude of me.’

‘Not at all—’ began Tessa, only to be cut off by Sandro.

‘Tessa was just enquiring after Umberto,’ he said. ‘Did you manage to get through to him last night?’

‘I did, and I’ve lots of messages for you from him—but I can tell you all that later,’ replied Angelica, then turned to Tessa. ‘You’re one of the few friends of my brother’s I haven’t met.’

‘Oh, I don’t know him!’ exclaimed Tessa. ‘It’s just that my cousin told me about the accident he had. I do hope he’s better.’

‘He’s recovering nicely,’ murmured the woman, her eyes returning once more to the man beside them. ‘Darling, isn’t it time you had a break? You look frozen,’ she chided softly.

‘I’m fine,’ he stated abruptly, then glanced at Tessa who was attempting to distract herself by trying to remember what it was like to have feeling in her legs. ‘But you’re not—are you, little one?’ He took her gently by the shoulder and turned her to face him, frowning as he examined her bedraggled appearance. ‘I think it’s about time you returned to the hotel and got yourself thawed out. I shan’t be needing you this afternoon; I’ve a meeting lined up with the actors we’re using.’

‘But I’m fine—honestly,’ protested Tessa, not in the least happy with the idea of being given special treatment. ‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t stay on till the rest of you have finished.’

‘I’ve just given you a reason,’ snapped Sandro, ‘so do as you’re told.’

Annoyed by his tone, Tessa was about to make an angry retort when it suddenly hit her how obtuse she was being. Special treatment didn’t come into it—he wanted her out of the way now that Angelica had arrived, and she had been too stupid to take the hint.

‘I…well, this afternoon I’ll go into town and get some notepads and pencils,’ she muttered lamely, then turned to Angelica. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

‘We’ll be running into one another all the time now,’ smiled Angelica. ‘We could have tea later.’

Still smarting from her own stupidity and ignoring the protests coming from her numbed limbs, Tessa changed her mind about going straight back to the hotel and made her way along the beach towards the town.

Only the day before, her first sight of the small town of Rathmullan, nestling sleepily on the shores of Lough Swilly with its magnificent backdrop of heather-hued mountains, had taken her breath away and filled her with an inexpressible joy. Today, feeling miserable and confused as she did, the mist-laden beauty of her surroundings only served to make her feel worse.

There wasn’t anything wrong with what she was doing, she argued with herself; if someone in the public eye chose not to co-operate with the Press, it was common knowledge that slightly underhand methods were often used to satisfy the public’s interest. And by interest she didn’t mean scurrilous curiosity about his private life, she meant the sort of balanced article she intended compiling on his professional life. All right, so she wasn’t yet a bona fide journalist, but she had to start somewhere!

She entered one of the shops in a terrace of small, stone-fronted cottages lining the rain-washed main street and bought notepads, pencils and an English newspaper. Further along she got herself a heavyweight tracksuit that looked as though it might keep her reasonably warm on days as bitterly cold as this particular one.

But as she made her way back to the hotel, along a heavily wooded path running parallel to the shoreline below, she began asking herself why, if she was so sure she was doing nothing wrong, she was still feeling so confused and dejected.

Probably because she still wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced she was right, she answered herself gloomily. Or was she being completely honest with herself? Because she might as well face up to it that, true to form, she was yet again attracted to a man who was completely unsuitable—though unsuitable was hardly the word, she informed herself grimly. Sandro Lambert wasn’t unsuitable in the relatively mundane way one or two other men had been. This time she was way out of her depth; up against a man who not only had looks that many a woman would be reduced to drooling over, but who was also an international celebrity—the sort of man who had women such as the stunning Angelica Bellini virtually at his beck and call!

She felt shame burn through her when she remembered how her juvenile gawping had irritated him. And the only reason he had kissed her was because, as he had so quickly pointed out, she had flung herself into his arms—the fact that she had done so accidentally being neither here nor there.

She walked through the grounds of the hotel, darting round to the back entrance when she saw Sandro in a group of men emerging from the path leading from the beach…he was the last person she felt like facing at that moment.

She was behaving like a lunatic, she remonstrated angrily with herself when she reached her room and began shedding her damp clothing. Spending half the night agonising over the fact that a man she barely knew had kissed her was bad enough; becoming reduced to sneaking round corners to avoid that same man was downright lunacy!

She kept her mind occupied by running over Babs’s wardrobe instructions as she took a long, hot bath and then washed her hair. Later, her hair wrapped in a towel and her body in a snowy white bathrobe, she flopped down on the bed and began glancing through the newspaper she had bought earlier. In its centre pages she came across a light-heartedly written article entitled ‘Unfaithful Heart-Throbs Given their Marching Orders’. The subject matter—women who had broken off their engagements to straying famous men—was of no particular interest to her. It was the apparently effortless, almost throw-away style of the writing that caught her attention and thoroughly depressed her as she realised just how limited her own writing skills were by comparison. It was only at the very end of the article, in a list citing a number of other men in the public eye whose fiancées had abandoned them because of their constant womanising, that she spotted a familiar name.

Rising from the bed, she flung aside the paper and went over to the dressing-table. So Sandro had been engaged to a childhood sweetheart who had decided enough was enough only a few weeks ago, she thought as she switched on the drier and began drying her hair—so what? It was all no doubt covered in those articles on him she had hastily got together before leaving London but hadn’t yet found time to read, she told herself, then gave her entire attention to the drying of her hair when it crossed her mind that she had had plenty of time to read them, including last night…or even right now.

She switched off the drier and was vigorously brushing her gleaming, shoulder-length hair when a tap on the door made her turn.

The door was half-open and Sandro was lounging against its frame with the air of one who had been doing so for some time.

‘I knocked a couple of times, but you probably couldn’t hear me over the noise of your hairdrier,’ he said, closing the door behind him and strolling over to where she sat at the dressing-table. ‘You’ve missed lunch,’ he informed her, stooping to pick up the tortoiseshell-backed brush that had slipped from her hand and placing it on the dressing-table top.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘But you couldn’t have had much in the way of break-fast either.’

‘I’ll eat tonight,’ she muttered, tensing with consternation at the sudden pounding of her heart.

‘Why did you go tearing off into town instead of back to the hotel earlier?’

‘Because I—’ She broke off, furious to find herself actually embarking on answering him. ‘What business is it of yours? Anyone would think you were my father—going on about my skipping meals and not doing as I’m told!’

He leaned over and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his gaze.

‘That’s probably because I’m not sure whether you’re twelve or twenty,’ he replied, both his voice and face confusingly devoid of expression.

‘Which age did you think I was last night?’ she demanded angrily as she twisted free from his hold, and could have bitten off her tongue as soon as she’d said it.

‘I didn’t expect you to take my words quite that literally,’ he informed her in drawling tones, his eyes glowering down into hers. ‘What age are you, anyway?’

‘Why should my age be of any concern to you?’ she demanded before she had time to think better of it.

‘You answer my question first—then I’ll answer yours,’ he mocked, a half-smile flickering across his lips while the scowling darkness remained unaltered in his eyes.

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Yes—I think I can accept that,’ he murmured, ‘now that you’re not sporting your usual infantile hairstyle.’ As he spoke he casually reached out and ran his fingers through the silky luxuriance of her hair.

Tessa wondered, as she drew her head sharply back from the electrifying touch of those trespassing fingers, if there was any way he could have sensed the magnitude of the effect they had had on her, and felt a shiver of horror ripple through her at the very idea.

‘I…weren’t you supposed to answer my question…now that I’ve answered yours?’ she gabbled, then realised she hadn’t the faintest idea what that question was.

‘Why should your age be any concern of mine?’ he mused, mercifully jogging her traumatised memory. ‘Perhaps women do mature much younger than men, but at thirty-one I do really feel I’m a bit old to be getting involved with teenagers.’

It was on the tip of Tessa’s tongue to ask exactly what he meant by ‘involved’; she felt slightly giddy with relief when she succeeded in biting back the words.

‘I’m glad you understand what I mean,’ he murmured.

‘I’m surprised to hear that, considering I know exactly what you mean!’ exploded Tessa, all thought of caution deserting her. ‘Which, to quote you, is that, despite my most definitely not being your type, you’ve decided to amuse yourself at my expense!’

‘As I’ve said before, I wish you wouldn’t take my remarks quite as literally as you appear to,’ he drawled.

‘What am I supposed to do—search your bald utterances for some subtly hidden flattery?’ she demanded scathingly.

‘Forget what I said yesterday,’ he murmured softly, his hands this time reaching out to the lapels of her bathrobe, prising them slowly apart before sliding his hands up to cup the shoulders he had exposed.

Tessa’s own hands rose agitatedly, not in any attempt to remove his, but to clutch her gaping robe over her breasts.

‘But you’re entitled to be flattered by how strongly attracted I am to the strange mixture I find in you of innocence and—’ He broke off, drawing her sharply to her feet.

‘Of innocence and what?’ she croaked, unable to stop herself.

‘You have to understand that English isn’t my first language,’ he whispered, his words baffling her while the glow softening his eyes held her in mesmerised thrall. ‘I express myself far better, in times like these, in Italian.’

His arms had encircled her and his mouth was coaxing open hers before she had even begun querying the sense of his words. She became vaguely aware of her hands, still clutching at her robe and now trapped between their bodies, but there was no way her stunned mind could distinguish whether the violent pounding of heartbeats against them was a product of one heart or two.

There had been men who had managed to stir an awareness in her of the powerful potential of her own latent desire, but it was only in this man’s arms that a once-shadowy awareness erupted into a violent awakening. And it wasn’t simply the sensuous sweetness of the mouth taking such burning advantage of the eager acquiescence of hers that was threatening to demolish the control she had never before had need to exercise, it seemed to be everything about him—the slight graze of his incipient beard against her skin; the aura of explosive virility emanating from that lean, hard body entrapping her own; that hint of fragrance, subtle yet unquestionably masculine, a scent that was exclusively his. For the first time in her life she knew herself to be in the arms of a man capable of stripping her bare of every defence she possessed…and her only reaction was her body’s eager participation in the wonder of its erotic awakening.

‘Hell, Tessa,’ he groaned, tearing his mouth from its passionate exploration of hers and burying his face against her hair, ‘I’m supposed to be meeting those actors this afternoon, not whiling it away making love to you.’ He lowered his head, his mouth searching hotly in the curve of her neck while his hands moved impatiently to the knotted belt of her robe.

By making love, her sluggish mind began warning her, this man meant a good deal more than a passionate exchange of kisses.

‘Shall I put them off till this evening?’ he breathed huskily. ‘Then we’ll be free to spend the afternoon making love and, in between, getting to know one another.’

He couldn’t have expressed it any plainer than that, shrieked out her now almost fully restored mind—and this, remember, was the same man who had so arrogantly informed her that, despite her many shortcomings, he might just decide to amuse himself at her expense!

‘I see you’ve made up your mind,’ she stated, her voice tight with strain.

He responded instantly to what he must have detected in her tone, his head rising as his arms released her.

‘Made up my mind?’

‘Yes—to amuse yourself at my expense.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been a mutual amusement?’ he enquired, the softness of passion in his eyes giving way to the sharpness of ice.

‘For your information, I go in for slightly more conventional ways of getting to know men than leaping into bed with them,’ she informed him icily, moving hurriedly away from him.

‘That didn’t exactly answer my question,’ he drawled. ‘And, for your information, there’s no need for you to put all that space between us; I’m not given to forcing my attentions on women…not that it would be necessary with you.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ exclaimed Tessa, trembling with rage.

‘Grow up, Tessa,’ he snapped. ‘I’m experienced enough to know when I’ve a responsive woman in my arms—no matter how much she chooses to protest once she’s safely out of them.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t let that go to your head if I were you,’ she flung at him angrily. ‘Not with the sort of louse I’m invariably attracted to!’

‘I’d love to stay and continue this delightful conversation, darling,’ he drawled, strolling to the door, ‘but I’ve those actors to meet’

So cool, so completely distanced from the man whose passion had turned her world upside-down only moments before, she thought with numbed bemusement as the door closed behind him. Only the most practised of seducers could have put on a display so calculatedly convincing…and only the most naïve of fools would have been so thoroughly taken in—and then compounded her stupidity by making herself sound little better than a gangster’s moll in her attempts to excuse herself.