Kitabı oxu: «Kissed By a Stranger»

CHAPTER ONE

SARAH barely had time to think about the folly of counting her chickens when her world turned sickeningly on its side.

One minute she was talking on the two-way radio to the camera crew following a few car-lengths behind, and the next she had slammed into a big red four-wheel drive car which had careened out of a side-street into her path.

Metal crunched against metal, the impact throwing her around inside her own car like dice rattling in a shaker. She slammed against the roof, then the dashboard, then the steering wheel, but her seat belt held—although it felt as if it was cutting her in two. Glass rained around her, spattering her skin and hair.

In the timeless silence which followed the crash she became aware of two things: by a miracle she wasn’t hurt, although she was pinned by the angle at which her car had come to a stop, and she could smell petrol.

Her teeth ached from the shaking, and from clenching them so tightly. Her vision was blurred but cleared when she shook her head, although the action didn’t help the headache she could feel building.

‘Of all the stupid, idiotic . . . ’ Her mind refused to supply a fitting description for the other driver. The fool hadn’t even looked before barrelling out into the traffic. On the Gold Coast Highway, one of Queensland’s busiest roads, it was a good way to commit suicide. She only wished he hadn’t tried to take her with him.

Through the shattered front window she could see a crowd gathering around the mangled vehicles. Furious enough to spit nails she might be, but she hoped no one was hurt. As a TV journalist, she’d covered enough serious accidents not to wish such mayhem on anyone.

The sight of the crowd sounded another warning. The petrol smell. She had to get out of here and warn everyone to get back before the whole car blew up.

Easier said than done, she soon found. The driver’s side door was jammed, and hammering her shoulder against it had no effect. She leaned close to the shattered window. ‘Somebody help me open this door.’

Unbelievably, a man was there within seconds, practically wrenching the door off its hinges. As soon as it was open he unsnapped her seat belt. ‘Are you hurt? Can you move safely?’

She nodded. ‘Mainly bruised, I think. Everything I can flex seems to work.’

She saw him sniff the air then frown. ‘Put your arm around my shoulders. I’ll lift you clear.’

He had reached the same conclusion she had. The car was no safe place to hang around. With a groan of effort she got her arm around his shoulder, some part of her noting that he was built like a tank. It was a reassuring discovery.

He wasn’t even breathing hard by the time he set her down on the grass verge, some distance from the car. She watched in amazement as he left her long enough to persuade the onlookers to move well away from the vehicles. The crowd seemed to recognize his authority instinctively. A military man? No, but definitely a leader of some sort, she concluded, watching him as he strode back to her side. In the distance sirens wailed, coming closer as she listened.

It reminded her that there was still considerable danger. She tried to struggle to her feet, but the man stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. ‘Take it easy. You could be in shock.’

‘I feel fine.’ But when she tried to rise her rubbery legs refused to support her. She sank back onto the grass. ‘On the other hand . . . ’

The man hunkered down beside her. ‘Now will you do as you’re told?’

‘The other driver?’

‘Being looked after. It doesn’t look as if anyone else is involved, which is a miracle considering the stupid way he shot out into the traffic.’

‘There was nowhere else for me to go except into him,’ she said shakily. To her fury she felt her eyes brim and squeezed them shut. ‘I feel like such a fool.’

‘Aren’t celebrities allowed to have normal, human reactions?’

Surprised, she opened her eyes. ‘You know me?’

Humour flickered across his features, which she now saw were more craggy than handsome but incredibly appealing for all that. The eyes regarding her with mild amusement were the deepest blue she’d ever seen. ‘You can’t watch Coast to Coast and not recognise its star, Sarah Fox. My name’s Luke.’

‘Hi, Luke.’ She glanced down at her bruised, tattered state, unwilling to admit how much his recognition warmed her—or how much she wished they could have met under different circumstances. ‘Some star,’ she muttered. ‘Can’t even make it back to the studio in one piece.’

He brushed long fingers through his thick black hair, exposing a streak of silver at each temple. The streaks looked natural but she’d bet they hadn’t come with age. If he was much over thirty-two she’d be amazed. ‘The accident wasn’t your fault,’ he insisted.

‘But the car belongs to the show. They’ll . . . ’

Whatever else she might have said was drowned in a roar like a train going through a tunnel. She gasped as Luke threw himself across her body, shielding her as the fuel tank of her car finally burst into flames. A fireball leapt skywards, the hot wind fanning across them, and she clutched at Luke, instinctively burying her face against the thickly padded muscle of his shoulder.

Screams and shouts erupted over the fire’s dragon voice, and people scattered in panic. The sound pounded at her ears and she screwed her eyes tight shut. She felt Luke’s hold on her tighten. ‘It’s okay, I’ve got you.’

In the odd timelessness of crisis, she recognised that he meant it. He wouldn’t let any harm come to her. She felt her laboured breathing ease a little.

Then the wail of sirens split the air as rescue vehicles screamed to a halt around them and workers raced to attend the blazing car. It could have been seconds or minutes before they got the flames under control. Her perception of time was distorted by the unreality of the situation. But gradually the car was reduced to a smouldering wreck, emitting ribbons of yellow smoke which curled lazily into the air.

Luke helped her to sit up. He looked pale but in better control than she felt. The back of his shirt was flecked with cinders but he shrugged off her concern. ‘What matters is that you’re all right.’

‘Thanks to you—again,’ she acknowledged.

His lopsided grin did strange things to her insides. ‘Glad to be of service. Were you rushing back to the studio with a hot story?’

He was trying to defuse the horror of what had just happened, she recognised. She shot a shaky glance at the still smoking car. ‘Not that hot, I hope. We’re on our way back from doing a solar energy story at a mud-brick community called Sunville.’

‘In the Gold Coast Hinterland. I know it. It borders a property of mine.’ He frowned. ‘How will you get home from here?’

She grimaced. ‘I can’t even think about home until I’ve checked in with the studio. Luckily the camera crew weren’t involved, so I can hitch a ride with them.’

Was she imagining things or did he seem relieved that she wouldn’t need a lift home? She found the thought oddly disquieting. Already she found herself curiously reluctant to see him walk away.

Whether it was the thought of him leaving her life as abruptly as he’d entered it or the sight of Rick walking towards her wielding his camera, she wasn’t sure. But she felt light-headed suddenly. She fought the sensation down. Automatically her hand went to the tangled mess of her hair. ‘Don’t look now, but here’s one of my crew now, and he’s got the camera turning. He must have decided we’re part of the story.’

Luke’s dark gaze flickered to the approaching cameraman. Then he looked around at the crowd pressing in on them from all sides. In seconds Rick would have them on film for that evening’s edition of Coast to Coast.

‘Do you want to have this on film?’ Luke asked her urgently.

She shook her head. Her shoulder-length blonde curls were a mass of tangles, her skin felt gritty with cinders from the explosion and her clothes were torn and dirty. ‘Not looking like this.’

‘Neither do I. So there’s only one solution.’

‘What are you—?’

Before she could complete her question, his mouth fastened over hers. It was just as well he had consulted her, because resistance would have been futile. It would have been like wrestling with a brick wall resting on her chest.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked between breaths.

‘Giving you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,’ he said, the same way.

It was hard to speak when her mouth was being covered every few seconds by his. It was also unnerving to be kissed by a man who already set her senses on overdrive. Under other circumstances she could have managed to enjoy having his mouth covering hers. But these weren’t ordinary circumstances.

‘I know you don’t want Rick to film you, but is this really necessary?’ she asked.

‘Unless you have a better idea.’

The soft wind of his breath in her mouth and the warm, compelling feel of his lips moving over her own made thinking clearly next to impossible. She allowed her eyes to close but it was a mistake, serving to focus her awareness even more closely on her rescuer and his effect on her. Her senses reeled. She tried to blame the shock of the accident but knew it wasn’t the whole explanation.

When she felt Luke relax, she opened her eyes cautiously, striving to sound more composed than she felt. ‘Do you think you put Rick off the idea of filming us?’

‘I was a bit too busy to notice, but I think so. A studio isn’t likely to use footage of somebody being resuscitated. A bit too graphic for the evening news.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ she said fervently.

‘In any case, our faces were well hidden, so you can relax. Your image is intact.’

And his privacy was assured, she thought. Well, the man had pulled her out of the wreckage, probably saving her life. If he didn’t want publicity, she wouldn’t force it on him. She owed him at least that much.

He sat back on his heels. ‘When your cameraman saw me working on you, he went to fetch the paramedics. You should let them check you over. Nothing seems to be broken but your colour’s high and your breathing is a bit shallow.’

She was tempted to laugh. The symptoms he described hadn’t been present until he’d started ‘resuscitating’ her. What was going on here? Maybe she was shocky from the accident after all. ‘You could be right,’ she agreed.

She closed her eyes again, trying to sort out her confused feelings. When she opened them a woman in ambulance uniform was bending over her. Luke was gone.

‘The man with me—did you see where he went?’ she asked tremulously as a sense of loss swept over her.

Her fingers resting on Sarah’s pulse, the paramedic frowned. ‘You mean your friend with the camera? He’s over with the rest of your people.’

Had she dreamed Luke’s presence? It seemed impossible that a complete stranger could have made such an impact on her in a few minutes. What had he done besides take care of her—and kiss her senseless in the guise of first aid?

A tremor shot through her and the paramedic looked concerned. ‘Are you cold?’

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ she repeated, for what seemed like the dozenth time.

She was still repeating it when Rick and the crew yielded to her request to be dropped off at a friend’s place on the Gold Coast. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘The ambulance people checked me over and everything’s working perfectly,’ she insisted. Everything except possibly her common sense. Why else was she so anxious to track down a man she’d never seen before today? Yet something drove her to try, even if it proved hopeless.

‘I’ll join you at the studio as soon as I take care of a personal problem,’ she promised, waving the crew away.

She stood outside her friend’s office, gathering her thoughts. If anyone could help her find out more about her mysterious, camera-shy rescuer, it was Kitty Sale. Kitty ran the most successful photo library on the coast and had supplied Sarah with more useful information than she could remember.

‘You realise he could be passing through? He may not even live in Australia,’ Kitty pointed out over herbal tea when Sarah had finished relating the afternoon’s adventure.

Sarah sighed. ‘I know. I have so little to go on. But I must find him and thank him for pulling me out of the car. He probably saved my life.’

Kitty regarded her shrewdly. ‘All you want to do is thank him?’

‘Well, maybe a bit more than that.’ She set the cup of chamomile tea down on a side-table. ‘All right, he intrigues me.’

Kitty’s eyebrow lifted. ‘Personally or professionally?’

Sarah hesitated. She’d been telling herself that her interest in Luke was professional, but in the instant she opened her mouth to tell Kitty so she knew it wasn’t the whole story. ‘Probably both.’

‘At least you’re honest. He sounds worth the effort—although your description could fit a dozen dark-haired hunks on the Gold Coast.’

‘All called Luke?’

‘If it’s his real name.’

Sarah pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head ached, thanks to the accident, making it hard to think clearly. Then she remembered something more. ‘His hair is unusual,’ she said, without opening her eyes. ‘He has a streak of silver at each temple.’

When she opened her eyes, Kitty was grinning. ‘Silver streaks, huh? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ She dived for her voluminous photo catalogues, shuffling through files until she located a brown envelope. With a flourish, she pulled out a glossy photo of a man in sleek black and gold racing leathers. ‘Is this him?’

Sarah’s heart missed a beat as she took the photo from Kitty. The midnight eyes seemed to lock with hers as she studied the craggy face above the leather outfit. It was Luke.

He cradled a full-face helmet in one arm and stood, with legs braced wide apart, alongside something that looked more like a silver bullet than a car. The power and purpose she’d sensed emanating from him suddenly clicked into place. Her throat dried. ‘Yes, it’s him.’

‘I knew it. As soon as you mentioned the silver streaks. They are . . . were . . . his trademark. He’s Luke Ansfield and those same streaks earned him the nickname “Lightning”. He used to be the top Formula One racing driver—five times world champion, if I recall correctly.’

Sarah resisted the urge to hold the photo close against herself, hardly daring to examine her motives. The man had saved her life. She shouldn’t read more into this than there was. All the same she heard herself ask Kitty, ‘Can I keep this for a while?’

Kitty nodded. ‘What are friends for? When you return it, make sure you put his phone number on the back.’

Something sharp stabbed Sarah, yet she had no claim on Luke Ansfield. She had no reason to react so strongly to Kitty’s suggestion. She made herself laugh. ‘What happened to Jeff, the one who jumps out of helicopters?’

‘He only did it once, to get an award-winning aerial photo. In any case, I’m involved with Kevin now. He’s a cinematographer at the film studios.’

This time Sarah’s laugh was genuine. ‘Ian, then Jeff and now Kevin. Still working your way through the alphabet?’

Kitty grinned. ‘Maybe. And you know what comes after K? L—as in Luke.’

‘Remember what you told me. He may not even live on the coast.’

‘Neither did Jeff or Kevin. It doesn’t have to be a handicap—especially at the speed a man like Luke moves.’

Surprise jolted through Sarah, but Kitty was referring to Luke’s racing career, not to what had happened on the highway earlier. Still, the comment had hit so close to home that Sarah shuddered.

‘He used to have a pretty wild reputation,’ Kitty went on. ‘He’s supposed to have settled down after he got into some trouble in Europe—enough to make him give up racing, since he came back to Australia four years ago. So it might pay you to be a bit cautious.’

Kitty meant well, Sarah knew. But she sensed that nothing Luke could have done could be so terrible. But it had made him give up a sport he loved. She chewed her lower lip. ‘How do you know so much?’ she asked Kitty.

‘Gavin, who came before Hedley, was a pit-man on the Grand Prix circuit. When we were together I spent some time trackside. How do you think I got that shot of Luke?’

Sarah nodded. ‘I’m glad you did.’

‘What will you do now? Use your journalistic skills to track your hero down?’

‘You never know.’ Sarah looked at her watch and started. ‘But not right now. I was due in make-up half an hour ago.’ Throwing her thanks over her shoulder, she flew out of the building and hailed a taxi to take her to the studio.

Donna Blake, the producer of Coast to Coast, was tearing her hair out. ‘Didn’t the guys tell you about the accident?’ Sarah asked, allaying the woman’s censure.

Immediately the producer looked concerned. ‘You went to a doctor?’

Sarah squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Not exactly. But the delay did involve the accident.’ It was the truth, Sarah told herself.

The producer looked severe. ‘Sarah, the contest for the job of permanent anchor on this show is down to you and Richard Nero. Unless you buckle down and work like mad, you’re practically handing him the job.’

Sarah was only too aware of it. ‘Sometimes I feel like making him a present of it,’ she retorted. But it wasn’t entirely true. The anchor job on Coast to Coast would be the culmination of years of commitment and hard work on her part.

Starting as a newspaper journalist, she’d progressed to on-air reporter, occasionally filling in as anchor when the show’s regular front-person, Angela Fordham, was on holidays.

Angela had been head-hunted by a national network six months before. Since then, the anchor job had been shared between Sarah and Richard Nero. The two of them spent alternate weeks in the job while management and the ratings made the decision.

So far Sarah felt she was ahead on points, but it was no reason to be complacent. Office gossip had it that management favoured a male presenter, although they couldn’t admit to any such thing, and Richard’s main strength lay in his ability to play corporate politics, which Sarah hated.

Somehow she managed to get through the show, reading the solar energy story from the autocue over the film they’d taken that morning at the Hinterland community.

The final story was almost her undoing. One of the roving reporters threw to a late story and suddenly Sarah’s monitor showed the film Rick had taken at the scene of the accident.

It was a shock to see film of herself lying on the ground, intercut with shots of the mangled car, and also to see Luke’s powerfully male form bending over her, his lips pressed to hers in the so-called ‘kiss of life. Her heart sank. So much for Luke’s belief that the studio wouldn’t screen such a traumatic moment. He had reckoned without the news value of his ‘patient’.

Her face was white beneath the studio make-up by the time they cut back to her for her closing remarks. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall what she said, although it must have been acceptable because nobody commented once the on-air light went out and everyone relaxed.

The producer came up to her. ‘You looked pale when we did the accident story. Brought it all back, huh?’

It had, but not for the reason Donna suspected. ‘Yes, it did,’ she admitted, disturbed to hear how shaky she sounded.

‘Just as well Richard’s in the chair tomorrow,’ the producer commented. ‘Go home and get some rest. You look like you need it.’

She went home, but she was much too keyed-up to rest. She had vowed not to look at the videotape of the show she automatically recorded every day. But, as if in a dream, she found herself replaying the accident segment, freezing the tape when the camera lens closed on Luke’s broad back. His face wasn’t visible, as he’d ensured, but she felt a sudden strange longing to reach out a hand and run it across those corded muscles.

She already knew how it felt to be kissed by him. What would it be like if there was genuine passion in the kiss?

Hold it, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. What did she know about the man—other than his name and occupation, and Kitty’s suggestion that there had been some scandal attached to his departure from motor racing?

And the fact that he excited her beyond anything she’d ever experienced before.

Minutes later she was seated at her computer, fingers flying over the keyboard as she chased any remnant of information about the mysterious Luke Ansfield.

He had said he owned property near the solar energy community, so she started by accessing council records of neighbouring landholders. Most of the names were familiar, from various news stories or local events, but one very large property was registered in the name of a holding company whose name she didn’t recognise. She would bet her last dollar that company was owned by Luke Ansfield.

Noting the address, she made an effort to suppress her rising excitement and get at least a few hours’ sleep. Tomorrow she would go in search of her reticent rescuer.

By morning her certainty had receded a little. What if he did own the land but didn’t welcome visitors? She considered telephoning ahead but rejected the idea. If she turned up unannounced, he could hardly tell her not to come.

Having covered the Sunville story, she knew the area in the Gold Coast Hinterland where the property was located. The narrow road wound through the foothills near Nerang to the Beechmont Plateau.

Around her, rolling green slopes were dotted with beef cattle farms. She kept her pace slow and her eyes open for horseback riders. One accident for the week was quite enough.

The turn-off to Luke’s land was so overgrown that she almost missed it. She wasn’t sure whether she’d expected high wrought-iron gates and electric fences, but it certainly hadn’t been the inconspicuous post-and-rail entry that she found. A small sign identified the property as Hilltop.

If you wanted to be discreet this was a good way to go about it, she thought, although the deeply rutted dirt track winding up the face of an almost vertical mountain seemed like overkill.

She had just about given up on reaching any human habitation when the road opened onto a clearing among the forest trees. In the centre was a colonial-style house of substantial proportions.

Care had been taken to incorporate traditional materials and colours. The building had wide verandahs surrounding its U-shaped design. What looked like a natural rock-pool, but probably wasn’t, served as a swimming pool off to one side of the clearing. Picturesque was the first word which sprang to Sarah’s mind.

At least here was a residence befitting Luke Ansfield’s status, she thought, feeling her spirits lift. She had begun to have serious doubts after traversing that daunting driveway.

Fresh doubts assailed her as she spotted a man polishing a jade-green Branxton cabriolet. Just the sort of car she’d imagined Luke Ansfield driving, but the man working on it wasn’t Luke.

The man met her halfway from her car. ‘Are you lost?’

Her reflection stared disconcertingly back at her from the car’s glossy finish. She looked away. ‘Is this your place?’

The man’s face hardened slightly as he sensed her evasion. ‘I live here, yes.’

Sarah also had an instinct for evasiveness. He hadn’t exactly answered her question. She took the plunge. ‘I’m looking for Luke Ansfield.’

The man frowned. ‘What makes you think he’s here?’

‘It is his property, isn’t it?’ she persisted.

The man dropped the chamois leather he was wielding and came closer. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

‘It’s all right, Glen. You could say I was expecting her.’

At the sound of his voice a strange sensation wound along her spine, all the way to the soles of her feet. Luke Ansfield was her rescuer. She would recognise that deeply resonant voice anywhere. She spun around. ‘Hello, Luke. I came to the right place after all.’

His midnight-blue eyes were masked behind dark glasses and his mouth tightened. ‘I had no doubt that you would, Ms Fox.’

‘It was Sarah yesterday.’ Damn, why was her voice so husky all of a sudden? She’d interviewed royalty without such a betraying effect.

He gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Yesterday I didn’t know who you were until I pulled you out of that crumpled car.’

‘You mean, if you’d known you’d have let the car blow up and take me with it?’

‘Hardly. What do you want, Sarah?’

It was progress of a sort, but his tone was hardly encouraging. She was also aware of the man, Glen, leaning against the Branxton, absorbing every word. Who was he—assistant, bodyguard? Both? ‘I wanted to thank you for saving my life,’ she offered.

‘You thanked me yesterday.’

‘Well, I...didn’t know who you were then.’

A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘Does it make a difference?’

She threw caution to the wind. ‘You kissed me yesterday. It’s at least worth an introduction.’

He looked as if keeping his temper in check was requiring considerable effort, but he said, ‘Come inside.’ To the other man, he said, ‘No need to loose the dogs yet, Glen.’

Following him inside, she flicked a nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Dogs?’

‘Guard dogs,’ he supplied, confirming her fears. ‘Between Glen and the Dobermanns, I’m well protected up here.’

Well protected from what? Or from whom? Fans from his racing days, or the problem in his past Kitty had alluded to? Either way, Sarah was grateful Luke wasn’t making any moves to set Glen or the dogs onto her yet.

As he strode ahead of her into the house she again became aware of his sheer physical presence. Yesterday she’d put his startling impact down to the shock of the accident. But what was today’s excuse?

She made herself focus on the imposing kitchen into which he led her. It seemed to be the hub of the house, judging by the vast colonial table which was strewn with papers and a state-of-the-art laptop computer. Dog toys on the floor reminded her uncomfortably of the absent Dobermanns, and the sheer size of a chewed wicker basket made her gulp in dismay.

She brought her gaze back to Luke himself. ‘Coffee?’ he asked, and when she nodded, he began setting up a plunger coffee-maker. His movements were assured, economical and definitely sexy. A man who elevated coffee-making to an art form, she thought with a start.

In an amazingly short space of time he set before her a cup of the most delicious coffee.

‘My own blend,’ he told her when she said so.

She looked around the beautifully appointed kitchen and into the comfortable luxury of the house she could glimpse beyond it. ‘This is a lovely home. Do you live here all the time?’

Tension radiated visibly along his broad shoulders. ‘Is this an interview?’

The sheer mystery of the man had aroused her reporter’s instincts, but she’d resisted the temptation, knowing her interest in him was much more personal. Since she didn’t want to admit as much, she said, ‘It is news, yes. When the Coast to Coast audience finds out who my knight in shining armour turned out to be—’

‘They aren’t going to.’

His furious denial cut across her so abruptly that she spilled coffee into the saucer. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said they won’t find out because you are not going to tell them.’

She’d known he was camera-shy but this was totally unexpected. ‘Surely your neighbours know who you are? Your face isn’t exactly unknown.’

‘My neighbours mind their own business, as I would prefer you to do,’ he stated, in a tone which suggested she would do well to co-operate. ‘These days I’m an ordinary man living an ordinary life, and I value my privacy highly. I would have thought that message came across clearly enough yesterday.’

She felt her face flood with colour. ‘You made your point very successfully.’

He moved closer and her pulses began to race afresh. ‘I could make it again, just so we understand each other.’

She didn’t understand anything, least of all him. All she knew was that the closer he came the warmer the room suddenly became. When his arms slid around her, she held her breath. There was no camera, no reason to let him kiss her, yet she knew as surely as she knew her own name that she was going to allow it.