Mills & Boon Modern Romance Collection: February 2015. Кэрол Мортимер
she used to do best.
‘I didn’t take leave,’ she admitted in a rush, the blood pounding in her ears. ‘I resigned.’
Even now the admission dealt her a sickening blow. After years building her career it still stunned her that she’d actually walked away from the only thing that had given her purpose and identity—her work.
As long as she could remember she’d wanted to be a journalist. Now that part of her life was over and it was no more than she deserved. Because of her Imran had lost his life. The price she paid was small by comparison. Her shoulders inched high as tension radiated up from her clawed hands.
In the other chair her inquisitor sat comfortably, fingers steepled together.
‘I see.’ Something about his inflection suggested that, even if he didn’t see the whole picture, he guessed most. The idea of him silently dissecting what she’d said pushed her into speech.
‘I’m sure your grandmother has told you about the essays I’ve written.’ She snatched a breath and hurried on. ‘They were well received and I’d always thought one day I’d try my hand at a book.’ Like when she retired.
‘It’s good sometimes to work on something longer term, without the quick demands of current affairs reporting.’
Except she’d thrived on pressure and deadlines. Being without them now created a new sort of pressure, increasing her fear that she wasn’t cut out for this longer project. Was this all a huge mistake?
‘And yet it’s a remarkable decision for a woman with such a promising career,’ he mused. ‘To cut herself off from work which, from what my cousin used to say, was a vocation, not a job.’
Jacqui’s breath hissed between her teeth. This man was too insightful.
‘I assure you I’m devoting all my energies to this. I’m not playing at it.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘But you must understand my doubts about this unlikely career choice. Especially when it coincides with heightened media interest in my sister’s whereabouts.’
‘You think I’m here to get a scoop on your sister?’ Jacqui frowned. ‘If that were so, surely I’d be staking out the private Caribbean island where she’s staying?’ That was where the pundits reckoned she was hiding, licking her wounds after a disastrous love affair.
Jacqui shook her head. Tunnel visioned as she’d been, she hadn’t considered Princess Samira relevant. ‘There was I thinking you doubted my qualifications. Or that I intended to write some titillating fiction about sex slaves rather than a well-researched history.’
‘Both crossed my mind.’ The admission was a slap in the face, making her skin tingle and igniting a spark of professional pride. ‘But what I’ve gleaned from our daily interviews and my investigations has reassured me somewhat.’
‘Somewhat!’ Annoyance spiked. How disappointed he must have been when she’d reported on her research. So far she’d focused on marriage celebrations and the training of young girls in domestic skills like preparing the spectacular sweets for which the royal court was famous. Nothing at all salacious.
He shrugged casually, the movement drawing attention to those wide, straight shoulders. ‘Your arrival just as Samira is being hounded by the press is too coincidental.’ He paused. ‘I’ve allowed you to remain for my grandmother’s sake, but I can’t be completely easy with your explanation.’
‘You don’t have much time for the press, do you?’
‘My caution comes from experience.’ His voice was steely.
Jacqui remembered the reports about his lovers and his jet-setting lifestyle before he’d inherited the throne. Even now he captured headlines wherever he went. The combination of stunning looks and extreme wealth guaranteed it. Then there were older reports she’d skimmed about his parents’ volatile relationship. They’d provided perfect fodder for sensationalist media outlets with gossip about break-ups, lovers and jealous rages.
‘I’m a journalist, not a paparazza!’
‘So you tell me.’
Jacqui pursed her lips, thinking. He’d given her support...so far. But he could change his mind at any stage. Only one thing would convince him—the truth.
A shudder ripped through her and she hunched forward, her arms automatically crossing, holding tight, as if that could keep the pain at bay.
She could keep her secrets and hope he didn’t change his mind about letting her stay. Or tell him what he wanted to know. Tell him what she’d not told a soul.
His patient silence, the sense of a listening presence in the anonymous darkness, won out. Or maybe she was just tired of hugging the truth to herself.
‘Everything I told you is true.’
‘But there’s more.’
Yes, damn him. There was more. She sucked in a sustaining breath.
‘I can’t do that job any more. I’ve tried and...’ She shook her head. ‘I just can’t.’ Jacqui heard the wobble in her voice and bit her lip. ‘I tried being in the field again and I just...shut down. I couldn’t function. Even being in the newsroom, working at that end, with the bustle and the people and the pressure, it was too much.’ She blinked and lifted her head to stare up at the clear, bright moon. She remembered staring at a moon like that from her lonely hospital bed that first night, when she still couldn’t believe the horror she’d witnessed.
‘Ever since the bombing, since Imran died, I haven’t been able to work.’
‘Post-traumatic stress?’
She lifted her shoulders in a tight movement. ‘Trouble sleeping, trouble handling more than one task at a time.’ It almost killed her to admit that. She’d been so proud of her professional skills. ‘Trouble with loud noises and too many people.’ On bad nights she couldn’t even face darkness, fearing sleep and the nightmares it might bring. And beyond all that was guilt that she’d led Imran to his death. She’d been responsible.
‘Tonight was the first night I’ve been able to stand being in a crowd of people without searching for suspicious packages or jumping at shadows.’
She told herself that was progress, but in some ways tonight had only made it all worse. For she’d spent the evening in conversation with such fascinating people, people she’d normally pursue for an interview. She’d had an idea for a report on current regional trade negotiations, but the thought of following it through had made her queasy. She’d been second-guessing herself, wondering if the idea was as good as she believed or if her judgement was flawed.
Forcing herself to face him, she laid herself bare, ignoring the shrieks of her ragged pride.
‘I need this project. Once I realised I couldn’t go back I had nothing. No job, no hope for the future. Until your grandmother and I corresponded again after...Imran.’ Jacqui swallowed over the obstruction in her throat and forced herself to continue. ‘She was so enthusiastic, I realised the project was too big for the article I’d planned. It needed a book. So here I am.’
Jacqui didn’t add that her work defined her. Relationships had never succeeded for her. She’d never belonged anywhere as she had in journalism. Burying herself in reporting, building a life around her professional goals was all she had.
Moonlight silvered the strong lines of his face as he surveyed her.
Did he believe her or still think this was a conspiracy to uncover dirt on his sister? Had she bared her secret shame for nothing? Was he going to kick her out?
‘Thank you for sharing the truth.’ His voice was rich and slightly rough, like crushed velvet rubbing on bare skin. ‘I suspect you haven’t shared that with many.’
None. But she refused to tell him that.
Jacqui