Wild and Wanton (2 page)

Her wardrobe was less than helpful; she had not one dress that was even remotely suitable. So the next day she gave herself an extended lunch break and went shopping.

After more than two years she still caught
her
breath at the beauty of London's churches, designed by such well-known names as Sir Christopher Wren and James Gibbs. The Gothic cathedrals, Victorian grandeur and Georgian elegance, Regency terraces and Renaissance palaces, and pageantry that was positively medieval in its splendour—all delighted her heart and eyes. She could never exhaust the sightseeing possibilities of the parks and art galleries and museums. She loved to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and the Horse Guards Parade. She loved the Cockney warmth of the cab drivers, loved the ballet and the opera and the maze of theatres. After dark, Shaftesbury Avenue turned into a glittering wonderland. And the shops! They were a whole fascination in themselves! They ranged from Harrods, the domed brownstone palace that was Knightsbridge's chief landmark, and Fortnum & Mason in Piccadilly, to the street markets and the shops in Oxford Street and Regent Street, more within Lindsay's modest means.

In coming to London she'd followed her brother, Phil, who had raved in his letters about the new life he'd made for himself. He'd said that it was like being reborn. Of course, Cathy, the girl he'd met in London and married after a whirlwind courtship, could have added to the enchantment.

City life had taken some getting used to for a girl whose roots had been in a small stone
village
in the north of England. There were still occasions when Lindsay felt a tremendous sense of awe, but for the most part she'd adapted well; London was now her city. At first it had seemed like a dream, but now her past was the dream and this was the reality. Though she'd been lucky in her job and now earned a good salary, the luxury of having her own apartment made making ends meet a problem.

Ami, one of the models, had told her about a trendy boutique in King's Road which featured high fashion at low prices, a veritable paradise for anyone on a tight budget who needed to look good. It seemed an appropriate time to find out if Ami had been right.

She gave herself over completely to the salesgirl and was guided into buying a figure clinging black sheath of a gown that accentuated the lovely curves of her figure as well as her fair coloring and pale blond hair. Because of an imperfection that was barely noticeable, and then only if pointed out, the gown came at a fraction of its intended price. It was the kind of gown that went with French perfume and Russian sable. Even without those luxurious extras Lindsay felt very desirable and expensive in it—not at all herself. Since she had no appropriate footwear she had to make a second purchase—high heeled black sandals with a silver thread enhancing delicate straps. This color scheme
would
enhance her silver bracelet and necklace, the only really good jewelry she possessed.

When she tried everything on again back at her apartment she was quite shocked to see what a sensuous image she cut. She hadn't realized how daring the dress was. But because it was too late to do anything about it now, she valiantly tried to swallow her apprehension.

The arrangement was for each model to make her own way to Nick Farraday's penthouse suite. Since they all lived in different sections of the city, this was the sensible course, but on leaving the friendly confines of the London taxicab that evening she felt oddly isolated. She wished she had someone with her for support as she entered the elevator which connected directly with the penthouse. On stepping out again she found herself looking at another door. It hadn't occurred to her that the penthouse would be sound-proofed, and the lack of noise coming from the suite made her wonder if she had come to the wrong address, particularly because she wasn't conspicuously early.

On the door was a button that she assumed was attached to a bell. She pressed it. The door glided open, and a glittery, noisy scene exploded before her astonished eyes. The party was really going with a bang. A maid approached, looking very chic in her uniform, and showed Lindsay to the ladies' powder
room,
first taking her coat from her and hanging it up. A last cursory glance in the mirror did nothing to calm the misgivings that were crowding back. She was worried about the dress, and wondered whether leaving her hair loose, as the salesgirl had recommended, was appropriate. Did it make her look a little wild and wanton? Should she be there at all? She asked herself. What was the purpose? She was stirring up an old sadness, making herself desperately unhappy all over again.

A man in his mid to late thirties came forward to greet her. He stood about five eight or nine, and had light brown hair that was beginning to recede. Though he had a homely face, he looked friendly, and Lindsay warmed to him even before he announced his name.

‘Greg Hammond,' he said easily, extending his hand. ‘I'm happy to welcome you.'

‘Lindsay Cooper.' As she gave her own name she responded to his friendliness with a smile.

Cathy had talked a lot about Greg Hammond. He had been supportive at the time of Phil's death, and to the best of Lindsay's knowledge he and Cathy still kept in touch. All the same, her tongue had locked momentarily before giving her surname as she wondered if he would connect her with Phil. She knew that he had been her brother's friend as well as a colleague at work.

To
her intense relief nothing showed on his face as he said, ‘You're from the modeling agency, right?'

‘How very astute of you to know that!' She could have said ‘How amazing!' but because models tended to have a certain polish which she knew she lacked, she decided on the more formal response.

His ‘astute' remark was neatly explained when he said, ‘Not really. I know it looks to be a select crowd here this evening, but most of them are regulars. I've been in Nick Farraday's employ long enough to be acquainted with all the people he knows. Besides,' he added with a puckish smile, ‘I compiled the guest list.'

‘That does give you something of an advantage.' Her smile subsided slightly as she inquired, ‘Isn't Mr. Farraday here?'

She had never met Nick Farraday, though she had formulated an image of how he'd look. Her eyes momentarily left Greg Hammond's face to scan the throng in an attempt to find someone who matched this image. But she couldn't see anyone wearing horns.

She thought it was rude of her host not to be present to receive his guests in person. Except, she remembered, she wasn't a guest in the conventional sense, merely there to be looked over as a possible Miss Allure.

‘He's around,' Greg Hammond announced airily. ‘He'll single you out when he's ready.
Meanwhile,
just mix naturally and enjoy yourself.'

‘Could you, knowing you were being spied on?'

‘That's coming it a bit heavy, isn't it? This is an extremely important assignment, and a most lucrative one for the right girl. A pretty face and spot-on statistics aren't enough. It's essential to see how the prospective choice makes out in public. But surely you were briefed about this before you came? So why the resentment? Do you know Mr. Farraday?'

‘No.'

‘So what gives with you?' Greg Hammond asked, his tone equable and friendly, but getting it across to Lindsay that he wouldn't take kindly to criticism of his boss.

There was a temporary pause while Greg Hammond stopped a circulating waiter, and the conversation wasn't resumed until a plate was in Lindsay's hand and she had made her selections from the tempting canapes on the tray.

‘You can't take up cudgels against a man you don't know. You weren't having me on about that?'

‘No, I've never met Nick Farraday. That's not to say, however, that I haven't heard a lot about him.'

That slipped out before she could help it, and Greg Hammond gave a long, drawn-out sigh of comprehension. ‘I see!' he exclaimed.
A
second waiter was stopped, and Lindsay selected a glass of champagne. So did Greg. He raised his glass to his lips. ‘Here's to you. Now, where were we? Ah, yes! I was just about to do some gentle probing into the obvious aversion you have for Mr. Farraday, a man you assure me you have never met. That being so, he can't have wronged you personally, so this antipathy must be on someone else's behalf. May I speak frankly?'

Regretting her runaway tongue, and squirming in dismay, Lindsay had no option but to say, ‘Feel free.'

But it was not to be. His candid speaking was cut off as a hand tapped him on the shoulder and a deep, attractive, masculine voice informed him, ‘You're wanted over there.' She didn't know whether she was delighted to be let off, or annoyed at having her curiosity frustrated, because despite her uneasiness it would have been interesting to hear what Greg Hammond had to say.

‘Sure.' Shrugging, Greg Hammond smiled into Lindsay's eyes. ‘It's always the same when I find myself alone with a pretty girl. See you around!' he concluded jauntily before taking off. Obviously, when Nick Farraday cracked the whip people jumped to attention.

Lindsay was conscious of the fact that the man who had delivered the summons that sent Greg Hammond speeding away had elected to stay by her side. In the circles she moved in,
with
models getting taller, she was used to women as well as men towering over what she had previously considered to be a respectable height. At five feet five inches, no one could have called her pint-sized, but that was how she suddenly felt as she tilted her head back in order to look at him.

He was expensively dressed. The impeccable cut of his dinner jacket whispered very discreetly that it was tailor-made; the wafer-thin watch on his wrist was gold, his shoes Italian. He was obviously one of the elite and excessively well-paid members of Nick Farraday's staff. The breadth of his shoulders and the almost aggressive stance of his muscular legs provided Lindsay with a possible clue to his identity. Men as wealthy as Nick Farraday were vulnerable. She had noticed that this suite was guarded by a full security system, but he no doubt also needed a fulltime bodyguard, and she made the snap decision that the position was adequately filled by this man.

Lindsay had two shortcomings that frequently landed her in delicate situations. One was her predilection for making snap judgments. The other was that she saw only what she wanted to see. Afterward, in playing the scene over again in her mind, she knew that this was yet another instance of hopeful thinking on her part, and that somewhere deep down in her a voice had been telling her
this
man was Nick Farraday. She could not admit this to herself and at the same time acknowledge the impact he made on her—an instant, electric attraction, like nothing she had ever before experienced. So she had to fool herself about his identity. She couldn't bear for him to be the man against whom she bore a fierce grudge. Hence, she dismissed the notion that he might be Nick Farraday before it had a chance to take hold of her.

His hair was black, his eyes the startling blue of a tropical sky. How well they went with a complexion that could only have achieved its attractive shade of bronze under a tropical sun. His physique was as outrageously handsome and as eye-catching as his face. Never in the whole of her life had she mentally stripped a man, but she suddenly saw this one reclining on white sand, his lean hips encased in white swimming trunks that showed off his spectacular suntan.

‘I didn't think Greg had said enough to make you blush. The . . . interesting part was still to come when I butted in. You've either heard the rest of the story before, or you've got a very athletic mind.'

She would much rather he knew
anything
than that the blush that had risen to her cheeks was because of her thoughts about him. Swallowing to regain her composure, she queried, ‘Athletic?'

‘Capable of making long jumps and landing
dead
on target. I don't usually eavesdrop, but I must confess that on this occasion I found the nature of the conversation too irresistible to pass up.'

‘And you know what Mr. Hammond was getting at?'

‘I'm sure he would prefer you to call him Greg, but stay with Mr. Hammond. Yes, unfortunately I think I do. You've never met Nick Farraday.' He wasn't asking her, he was telling her. ‘That's what you said.'

‘Yes.' She was finding it difficult to unlock her gaze from the compelling force of his eyes.

‘So it's secondhand hate, the worst kind,' he said scathingly. ‘Hating on behalf of someone else should carry a warning because rarely are all the circumstances disclosed by the party on whose behalf the hating is done. That's natural enough, because who wants to lose face with someone who cares enough about you to spring to your defense?'

‘The fact that you've got all this down pat must mean that it's a regular occurrence,' Lindsay said, her voice less searing than it might have been because of her blocked breath.

His shrug could have meant anything. ‘The women who are favored never have anything to complain about. It has happened that someone near and dear to someone out of favor, a close relative or a friend, has attempted to inveigle her way in, wearing the
kind
of dress that excites a man's eye, but with a heart full of revenge beating in the breast so tantalizingly . . .' His eyes took over and were as eloquent as his tongue as they followed the course of the silver chain suspended round her neck; it was a look as warm as a caress as it dipped to the neckline of her dress.

The dress hadn't seemed so low-cut when she'd tried it on in the shop. Because the back was slashed even more daringly; it wasn't possible to wear a bra with it, though the bodice had a strip of double-facing. The concentration of his gaze made her extremely grateful for that. She wondered what setting he had used for her in his mind. A sickle of white sand . . . or the silk sheets of a bed?