The Secret Father

‘Why?’ She hardly recognised her own voice. The expression on his face, a raw frustration, filled her with more fascination than his earlier performance had. Yet there was danger here too—danger in asking the question, danger in prolonging this situation. ‘What were you going to do that was so bad? Or don’t you have a personality of your own?’

He sucked in his breath and his chest rose. ‘You want to know what I was going to do?’ One hand slid to her shoulderblade and the other moved to the back of her head. ‘This.’

Whatever devil had possessed her to push him to this point she couldn’t imagine. She hadn’t known such a creature dwelt within her, but then she hadn’t known a kiss like this existed either. It set out to dominate and subdue and it did both, but more—much more.

There was no preliminary, just fierce, hard possession. His tongue sank into the warm, moist recess of her mouth hungrily. The whimper in her throat, the fine tremor that rippled through his powerful body were all elements of the total mind-numbing confusion.

‘Satisfied?’ he grated, his hand automatically going to loosen a non-existent tie at his throat. Discovering the open neck of his shirt, he scowled and muttered under his breath. He was genuinely shocked at his brief loss of control, and alarmed that this woman whom he scarcely knew had been the catalyst.

‘I asked for that,’ she said in a stunned voice.

‘Not a very politically correct statement, but you’ll get no arguments from me on that score,’ he said in a tone that showed clearly that the brief embrace, if such a wild, elemental thing could be so classified, had not improved his humour.

Like molten lava solidifying, her body was regaining its normal control. Her skin was tacky with sweat from the enormous burst of temperature, but her face had gone deathly pale.

‘Dear God,’ he said, looking at her stricken face. ‘That was unforgivable.’ He raked his fingers through his thatch of thick, jet-dark hair and looked abstracted.

‘It was only a kiss,’ she said absently.

He touched the corner of her mouth where the delicate membrane had broken and a faint smear of blood tinged her pale lips.

‘You chose the wrong time to start playing with fire,’ he said gently. ‘Go away, Rosalind, before I try to kiss you better.’

The ambiguity of her response shone briefly in her eyes, before she did exactly what he suggested and fled to her room.

CHAPTER THREE

LINDY stared at the sheaf of papers Sam pushed into her hands.

‘This is nonsense,’ she said slowly as she deciphered the printed gobbledygook. At first glance the characters’ names were the only things that made any sense to her.

‘So is medical jargon to me and the scriptwriter. Fill in the blanks with authentic terminology and Ned will make any adjustments. Is there something you don’t understand?’

Lindy compressed her lips and bit back a vitriolic retort. He had said she’d be working hard for her money, and he wasn’t wrong! She was used to unsociable hours, but she hadn’t expected to see the sun rise over the ocean on her way to work this morning.

A peremptory banging on her bedroom door had woken her at an ungodly hour. Sam had proceeded to inform her through an inch of wood that she had half an hour before he was off. This was the reason why she didn’t have a scrap of make-up on and her hair, which needed shampooing, was scraped back in a ponytail. She felt cross, tired, nervous and very ill-used. Where were sisters when you needed them? she wondered.

Sam Rourke was the most inconsiderate man she’d ever come across. To add insult to injury, he had scarcely appeared to notice her on the journey to the Gothic-looking mansion at which, it transpired, they were filming. A lot had been going on behind those spectacular eyes, but none of it involved her! That suited her just fine, she told herself. She had watched as Sam’s presence on the set had a similar effect to a bracing wind, and those who, like herself, felt sluggish were soon infected by the man’s vitality and enthusiasm.

‘Fine,’ he said, taking her silence as acquiescence. ‘I’ll look it over later.’ Lindy watched him stride away with a purposeful air and wished she knew what she was doing.

‘You look lost.’

Lindy turned to the owner of the sympathetic voice. ‘I’m moving in that direction,’ she admitted.

‘I’m Ned Stewart, the writer.’

Lindy smiled. He was being modest adding his job description. Like millions of others she was a fan of N.A. Stewart’s best-selling psychological thrillers. This was the first time that anyone had attempted to transfer his work to the big screen and Lindy, who had loved the book, would have hoped that the production would do it justice even if she hadn’t had a personal interest in the enterprise.