Sweet Madness

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 national lottery. ‘Just one minute,’ he said, then put his hand over the receiver. ‘Phone my secretary tomorrow. Start date—when? A fortnight?’

‘A month.’

He shook his head. ‘A fortnight. I’ll see you then.’ And he gave her a polite nod of dismissal, continuing his conversation with ‘Fran’—whoever she was—the knockout redhead he’d been with in the restaurant probably, thought Sam with unwelcome resentment.

She left the studio, trying to walk normally across the vast floor area, which was difficult when she knew that those enigmatic eyes were watching her, wondering why she should not be feeling like whooping for joy that she’d just landed a job with one of the world’s greatest photographers.

Because joy was too strong a word to describe her feelings. Too strong and too simple.

She’d never come out of a job interview like this before, as churned up inside as if someone had just put her through the wringer. But then she’d never met a man like Declan before.

A brilliant man who was so abrasive, so unsettling.

And sexy as hell.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5f8b37cf-1e1f-5011-abd4-55a4e7044c1d)

‘WHY didn’t you warn me?’ Sam swung round to face Robin accusingly, the large silver hooped earrings she wore swaying wildly, like swings in a bird-cage.

‘Warn you about what?’ asked Robin, mock-innocently, a grin on his face.

‘Him! Declan Hunt. He’s unbelievable.’

‘I did warn you—I told you that he was a genius. And a bastard. I thought that three years of working in the States might have tamed him a little, but apparently not.’

Something in Robin’s eyes prompted her next question. ‘What’s he like?’

He shrugged. ‘Who really knows with Declan? He’s an intensely private man. I gave him his first job, you know. It’s funny—even at eighteen I knew that he had the talent to go right to the top, to outclass anyone else of his generation.’ He smiled at her. ‘So he’s offered you the job, huh? And naturally you’ve accepted.’

Sam shrugged, knowing that she would never share with Declan Hunt the kind of easygoing working relationship she had with Robin. ‘I’d be a fool not to, wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t think so, but then I’m biased, aren’t I? I’d rather have you stay here, with me.’

Sam smiled at Robin Squires. Though at fifty he was around two decades older than Declan, he too wore the ubiquitous denim. His broad cockney accent was an affectation, since he came from one of England’s most aristocratic families, and it was this that set him apart—since many clients were still impressed by someone who not only took good pictures, but had a title, too.

She shook her head regretfully. ‘Oh, if only I could—anything for an easy life—but this girl’s career is demanding to take off, and Declan Hunt provides the world’s best launching pad.’ She frowned. ‘He told me that my being a woman worried him, that he finds them emotional to work with.’

Robin looked at her quickly. ‘He said that?’ He picked up an eyeglass to scan a whole sheet of tiny ‘contact’ photographs, and remarked almost casually, ‘You know that Gita used to be his assistant?’

Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. ‘Gita?’ she verified. ‘His assistant? Your Gita?’

Robin put down the eyeglass. ‘There’s only one Gita.’ He gave a kind of blank smile. ‘Isn’t there?’

Yes, indeed. Robin’s exquisite Indian wife had been the model of her decade, retiring much too early, according to the pundits.

Gita.

With those wide dark-brown-velvet eyes that a man could lose himself in, silky skin the colour of milky coffee, and long, aristocratic limbs. And as Lady Squires, Robin’s wife, she now had a different career—that of society beauty. Her two homes were always being featured in magazine and newspaper articles. And no race meeting was considered anything if Gita was not there, wearing one of the millinery creations for which she was famous.

These days she rarely ventured near Robin’s studio, and on the few occasions that Sam had met her she had found her stunning, aloof—and very slightly terrifying.

Sam frowned. ‘I had no idea that Gita did photography before she started modelling.’

‘Why should you have known? It was way before your time, and it’s not something that I particularly broadcast. Anyway, she wasn’t his assistant for very long. Declan saw her potential, decided she was wasted behind the lens—he took some shots and the rest, as they say, is history. They became overnight successes, and never looked back. In the beginning, she wouldn’t let anyone else photograph her, which only added to his, and her, mystique.’ He shot her another glance. ‘You knew that they were involved, didn’t you? Emotionally, as well as professionally?’ He spoke the words quickly as if to get them over with, like a child gulping down a particularly nasty dose of medicine.

Sam shook her head, surprised by the sudden, inexplicable lurching of her heart. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She was curious to know more, and yet, at the same time, strangely reluctant to hear it. ‘Was it—serious?’

Robin gave a laugh which sounded forced. ‘Very. The beautiful couple with the world at their feet. They could have been the Taylor-Burton combination of the photographic world.’

‘But I don’t remember reading anything about it,’ said Sam slowly.

‘You wouldn’t have done. Declan is a man who guards his privacy well. He managed to keep the affair out of the tabloids, much to Gita’s chagrin. She is—’ he gave a rueful smile ‘—a keen self-publicist.’