Sweet Madness. Sharon Kendrick
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lips gave a cool imitation of a smile. ‘She usually bursts into tears. Do you deny that?’
She could understand some women crying, especially with a man like this around to provoke them. Frankly, if she were incarcerated with Mr Declan Hunt all day long, she might just consider taking out shares in Kleenex! Not that she was likely to be incarcerated with him. She was destined for the door, no doubt, but let her leave him believing her to be a cool cookie. She mimicked his cool smile with one of her own. ‘Some women, perhaps, Mr Hunt. Not this one.’
Another cool smile. ‘So you’ve been working for Robin Squires for—how long?’
‘Nearly two years.’
‘My ex-boss,’ he observed, an indefinable note in his voice. ‘Tell me why you want this job so much,’ he said suddenly.
Did it show that much? she wondered. Was her hero-worship of this man’s work so apparent? She looked into his eyes. They had fenced for the whole of the interview; she probably didn’t stand a chance. She had lied about her weight and let him carry on thinking that she behaved as outrageously as her sister, but she respected him enough as an artist to give him her reply from the heart.
‘I want to work with you,’ she said simply, ‘because of your book—The Innocents.’
His eyes shuttered like the closing of a lens, and his features became stony-cold—as forbidding as if they had been hewn from granite. ‘I don’t do that kind of work any more,’ he said, and there was a new, harsh note to his voice.
My, but he was touchy! She wondered what she had said that was so wrong, and struggled to make amends. ‘No. I know. But you can. You’re capable of it, and that’s enough for me.’ She was aware that she had raised her voice, speaking with all the zeal that his masterpiece of a book had inspired in her when it had first been published three years ago. That book had changed her life in a way. Because of it she had gone to work for Robin—she had wanted to learn from the man who had taught Declan. And now, today, she was here with a chance of working for the man himself—if she hadn’t blown it.
There was a long silence she didn’t dare to disturb.
Still resting his head in his hands, he had tipped back so that he was now looking at the ceiling. When he lowered his head to look at her and spoke again, the harshness had disappeared, the cool drawl returned.
‘I’m a fashion photographer now, Ms Gilbert. No more, no less. If you’re looking for something deeper, something more meaningful, then you can walk out of this door right now.’
She held her breath.
‘If, on the other hand, you want to learn how to take good professional fashion shots, then I’m your man.’
This last flat statement none the less sounded so like every woman’s fantasy about Declan Hunt that Sam’s thoughts were thrown into such confusion and she thought she must have misheard him.
‘Wh-at?’
He gave her a look which might almost have indicated that he was in danger of changing his mind, so Sam forced herself to ask as casually as she could manage, ‘You’re offering me the job as your assistant?’
He nodded. ‘If you want it.’
Oh, she wanted it. No doubt about that; what puzzled her was why he wanted her. ‘But why me, a woman, after all you said about women?’
He frowned, then leant forward to the black folder which was on the table in front of him. It was her portfolio. He took out a black and white photo and held it up.
‘Because of this,’ he said, then, possibly to temper what sounded like unconditional praise, proceeded to tear it to pieces. ‘Oh, it’s crude,’ he amended, ‘in terms of composition. It’s over-exposed and poorly lit. And yet . . .’
‘Yet?’ she prompted, tentatively—marvelling how his whole demeanour had changed when he spoke about the photograph—his face suddenly mobile, a certain animation about him as he gestured with the fine-boned, long-fingered hands. As though he had lost himself in the picture.
‘Like all good pictures, it tells a story.’ He fixed her with a sudden swift searing look. ‘An unusual story, and one which I can’t work out.’
Sam had been snapping children at Flora’s birthday party, capturing the extremes of children’s behaviour—the joy, the tears and the tantrums—but Declan Hunt had picked on the portrait of Flora herself taken two years ago, when she was only five. She’d given that shy smile which so rarely lit up her face, but even while smiling there came across the rawly vulnerable streak which lay at the heart of the child.
‘She’s sad,’ he said softly.
Sam’s throat constricted. Was it that plain? Or only to him—with those eyes which had been trained to see through to the core of every subject? What child wouldn’t be sad with parents constantly caught up in their own private war? ‘A little sad, perhaps. I must have caught her on a bad day,’ she lied baldly, aware that he was waiting for more, but she wasn’t prepared to give him any more.
His eyes narrowed, as if exploring his own possible explanations for her reticence to expand on the subject. ‘I should have asked if you have any outside commitments?’ he probed. ‘Anything which would prevent you from giving less than a hundred per cent to the job? My hours are more demanding than Robin’s ever were.’
She looked at him, her dark eyes huge with query. ‘Such as?’
‘A husband and daughter?’
She looked down at the photograph of Flora he was still holding, then down at her hands, a quick movement which hid her eyes, and then it suddenly clicked what he had inferred. Dear heaven—he was referring to the incident at the restaurant the other day. She remembered holding Flora tight, hugging her against her chest and then looking up slowly, some sixth sense telling her that she was being watched, to find that intense blue gaze upon her. Did Declan imagine that Bob was her husband, Flora her child? Oh, the irony if he did—for he couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d tried.
‘Flora is my niece, Charlotte and Bob’s child. Bob—the man you saw—is Charlotte’s husband, not mine,’ she stated, then gave him a determined smile. ‘If you’re offering me the job, Mr Hunt, I’d like to accept.’
‘Declan, then. Welcome.’ He held out a hand and she did the same, allowing him to enclose her own in his firm, warm grip, aware of some thrill of recognition striking deep within her as flesh met flesh, and her conventional thanks flew out of her head as she was rendered speechless by the impact.
Dear heaven, she remonstrated silently once more, as the dark blue eyes surveyed her with nothing more than curiosity, is this how much of a prude you’ve become, that a man’s touch can threaten to knock you right off balance? It was a simple handshake, nothing more. A deal sealed. Say something quickly, before he changes his mind.
‘Thanks—Declan.’ Exit on dry wit, she thought, and smiled. ‘And I do want to reassure you that I promise to sublimate all those unattractive feminine qualities which you find so incompatible with work.’ Except that somehow sublimate seemed to be entirely the wrong word, for his eyebrows arched arrogantly as she uttered it.
‘Take most of what I said with a pinch of salt, Sam.’ There was a glint of unholy devilment in those sea-dark eyes. ‘I’m not really such an out-and-out chauvinist—but I haven’t the easiest manner in the world when I’m working. Just testing that you could cope with it.’
So his provocative comments had all been his own bizarre form of interview technique! Sam glowered, tempted to—what? Her pulses were singing with temper—surely it was temper?—and she waited for him to speak, because she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to say anything that wasn’t grossly insubordinate, when at that moment the telephone rang.
He picked it up, listened, smiled, said, ‘Fran!’ as though someone had just told him he’d won the