Sweet Madness. Sharon Kendrick
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did Declan—I mean—do you still speak?’
Robin looked at her in surprise. ‘Oh, Declan isn’t a man to bear a grudge. “The best man won” was what he said at the time. But whether Gita would agree, now that he’s back, I’m not sure,’ he finished in an undertone which Sam had to strain her ears to hear.
She set about making coffee for them both, still puzzled by what Robin had let slip. Had he been implying that Gita was still carrying a torch for Declan? And what of Declan’s feelings for Gita?
Sam shook her head and sipped her coffee. It’s none of your business, Sam Gilbert, she told herself sternly, as she went into the dark-room to develop a film.
She started work exactly a fortnight later. The journey from her flat in Knightsbridge was not exactly long, or arduous, but she took care to rise at least an hour earlier than she needed, and caught the Tube to Declan’s studio.
She had been back there just the once, when he had given her a key, and introduced her to the one other permanent member of his staff, and she had been amused to note that his reservations about working with women were backed up by fact, since his secretary-cum-receptionist was a man! Michael Hargreaves was a couple of years younger than his boss, well-spoken, and exceedingly polite—he probably had to be to compensate for his boss’s shortcomings she thought. He also, according to Declan, spoke four languages with ease, and had a heftily impressive Classics degree from Oxford. So quite what he was doing in a rather dead-end job as secretary she couldn’t imagine.
She had thought that she’d be there before Declan, but as she pushed the door open she was greeted by the sight of his undeniably attractive posterior, clad in clinging black denim, as he fiddled around with a maze of thick black wires on the floor, and she was startled by the tingling as the little hairs at the back of her neck prickled in response to him. For Sam, it was an entirely new and not very welcome sensation, this blatantly physical response to a man she neither really knew nor particularly liked.
‘Get me a screwdriver from out of the tool-box, would you?’ he ordered abruptly, without turning round.
He obviously didn’t believe in the red-carpet treatment, she thought crossly, as she draped her satchel over the back of a light-stand. A ‘Good morning, Sam—welcome to your new job’ wouldn’t have cost him much. ‘Where is it?’
‘Believe it or not, it’s the large box in the corner, cunningly marked “tools”,’ he returned sarcastically.
She walked over to the tool-box, opened it, and extracted two screwdrivers which she thought would do. ‘But “tools” could mean anything, don’t you think?’ she answered, matching his sarcasm, with a sudden need to show him that she could give as good as she could get. ‘For all I know it could be where you keep your supply of beer.’
‘Come over here,’ he said, completely ignoring her last remark, and indicated the space next to him. ‘I need you to hold this wire for me.’
She crouched down beside him, and took the wire he’d pointed at, aware suddenly, and almost painfully, of his closeness. He was so close that she could detect some faint scent of lemon—soap, probably; somehow she could not imagine a man like Declan Hunt splashing aftershave all over that impressively shaped neck. So close, in fact, that she could see a minute scar which traced a thin line down one cheek, and just below it his razor had just slightly nicked a tiny spot of blood at the curve of a jaw which was both strong and sensual. A newly shaved jaw, but one where the shadow of the new beard would shortly reappear. He looked, she thought, like the kind of man who would probably shave twice a day and still have a darkly shadowed jaw . . .
‘Far be it from me to interrupt your little reverie . . .’ he drawled.
To her horror, she realised that he had been speaking to her, and she hadn’t heard a word of it. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she babbled quickly. ‘I was miles away.’
‘Hmm. Well, don’t daydream on my time.’
‘I won’t.’ Well, if he had noticed her gazing at him like a soppy puppy, at least he had the decency not to draw attention to it.
He rose to his feet, and she did the same, a sudden flare of excitement running through her involuntarily which made her cheeks grow hot as she noticed that he was subjecting her to a similar kind of scrutiny—the only difference being that he didn’t look in the least bit puppylike. His eyes were narrowed as they swept over her, his face indifferent.
‘Wear something a little more suitable tomorrow, will you?’ he said shortly.
Sam stared at him with what she considered righteous indignation, hoping that it might rid her of this crazy excitement. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard. I’d like you dressed in something more substantial tomorrow.’
She glared at him. She had dressed with care for her first day. Nothing over the top, but she had thought it perfect—a fine-knit dark-caramel-coloured sweater which went well with the dark mahogany of her bobbed hair, slim-fitting black leggings, and short black ankle boots. ‘What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?’
He smiled, but not with his eyes. ‘What are you wearing underneath your sweater?’
‘Wh-at?’
He shrugged. ‘You wanted to know what was wrong with your attire, and I’m about to tell you. It happens to be a perfectly legitimate question.’
And a perfectly redundant one, she thought with mortification as she realised just what he meant, because her nipples were pushing hard and painfully through her flimsy bra against the thin material of her sweater, as visible as if she were freezing cold. Only here, in his studio, she wasn’t the slightest bit cold, which left only one other and highly disturbing reason for their tingling tightness.
Their eyes met in silent acknowledgement of her unwitting response to him, hers smouldering with resentment at this unwelcome power he wielded, his coolly indifferent, as though such a reaction was par for the course, and certainly nothing to get excited about.
This kind of thing just doesn’t happen to me, Sam thought desperately, as the colour flared in her cheeks, feeling more vulnerable than she’d done for years, knowing that her face was on the verge of crumpling; and perhaps he saw it, for he made a small terse exclamation of something that sounded like surprise underneath his breath.
‘You know,’ he mocked softly, ‘for a woman who kicks up a storm with strange men in restaurants that’s a pretty good imitation of a little maidenly embarrassment.’
He can think what he likes, she thought fiercely, her confusion vanishing as anger took over. ‘You still haven’t told me why what I’m wearing isn’t suitable.’
He sighed, clearly bored with the conversation. ‘It’s simply that I do a lot more location work than Robin. You’ll be outside a lot more. Those clothes are fine, but not for clambering up ladders and striding across muddy fields. So tomorrow, wear something else. Denim is the most practical. Thick sweaters. Oh, and—’ his eyes skimmed her breasts with lazy amusement ‘—thermal vests might be a good idea, too.’
Why wouldn’t he let up? Did he enjoy baiting all women like this? She couldn’t imagine Gita putting up with such taunts, and in that instant she decided to try her own form of retaliation.
‘I forgot to tell you that Robin said to send his regards. He was saying that he and . . . Gita haven’t seen you for a long time. Not since before you went to America, I believe?’ she asked with innocent interest.
The effect was instant, and his reaction both gratified and sickened her as she saw his mouth tighten into an aggressively arrogant line, a brief and indeterminable light flaring before his eyes slit into dull shards. And, interestingly, a pulse started to throb at the base of his throat. It seemed that, just as hers had done, his body too was now betraying him. He was suppressing it, but there was more emotion written on that harshly handsome face than she’d seen there before. And all inspired by Gita’s name. He’s still in love with