The Secret Father. Kim Lawrence
relaxed; so Hope was in love. ‘Well, I know he’s older than her…’ It had been a good ten years since Lloyd Elliot had starred in a film, but as a producer and director with half a dozen box-office hits under his belt his name was still very much public property.
‘And married—very married.’
Lindy went pale. ‘Hope wouldn’t have an affair with a married man.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so!’ she rapped, glaring at his smug profile. ‘My sisters would never get involved with married men.’
‘I almost forgot, Hope did say you’re triplets,’ he said, half to himself. ‘This sort of thing does happen on film sets, you know. On average I’d say we see a divorce and a handful of illicit romances. It’s a very claustrophobic environment and film-set flings are not that unusual. It’s no big deal.
‘Here we are,’ he said soon after, swinging the car into a driveway that led to a white clapper-board, single-storey building surrounded by a deck that had a view of the rocky and secluded bay. The view was only enjoyed by a scattering of homes that lay clustered on the tree-covered slopes.
Any other time Lindy would have been enchanted by the place, but as she clambered from the high vehicle she was trembling with indignation and shock. That he could accuse her sister and then have the absolute gall to make an affair with a married man sound—how had he put it?—‘no big deal’!
His broad back was turned to her as he proceeded to pull her luggage from the back. ‘How dare you tar my sister with the same brush as yourself?’
The low intensity of her tone made Sam spin around. For a moment he was too stunned by the sudden change from calm serenity to ferocious anger to reply. He’d never been a contributor to the theory that cool women had an untapped core of fire, and he’d certainly never felt the urge to prove the case one way or the other.
Still waters looked a lot more interesting than he’d have thought possible. Sam ruthlessly extinguished the spark of interest. He couldn’t afford to explore any possibilities right now, at a time when his energies were totally committed to the task ahead. He didn’t need distractions; this was his first time out wearing the director’s cap and his role was a million miles away from the familiar format the public knew and loved.
He was charged up at the prospect of the months’ work ahead. Besides, this woman hadn’t even tried to hide the fact that she looked on him as a piece of beef cake and nothing else. It was something he was accustomed to, but her attitude really riled him. For some obscure reason he wanted to be around when Rosalind Lacey was forced to accept that he was more than a pretty face.
‘You asked, and I told you how it looks. They’re not being exactly discreet if you must know. If you want to believe your sister is as pure as the driven snow, that’s fine by me. I didn’t set out to bad-mouth either of them, but you’re bound to hear a lot cruder speculation before long,’ Sam warned her. ‘More to the point, so is Lloyd’s wife. You do know he’s married to Dallas?’ he said, with a hint of incredulity that anyone could be ignorant of this fact. The couple had a very well-documented relationship.
‘She’s a singer, isn’t she?’ Her summer-blue eyes had grown stormily grey as she glared angrily at him, and her angular jaw was set at an aggressive angle.
Sam shook his head incredulously. ‘You could say that,’ he agreed mockingly. ‘Dynamite Dallas, they call her, and when she hears of this little escapade I should think she’ll live up to her name.’ It occurred to him that this quiet, subdued creature could give even the tempestuous Dallas a run for her money when she lost her temper.
‘I don’t give a damn what they call her,’ Lindy snapped. ‘But if I hear anyone maligning my sister they’ll have me to answer to.’
Sam let out a soundless whistle as she stalked up to the front door, unwittingly giving him a view of her excellent rear in a close-fitting linen skirt. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he breathed, amused laughter rumbling in his chest as he tucked one case under his arm and followed her.
Inside, the house was much bigger than it had appeared. Pale walls, lots of exposed stone and gleaming wood floors scattered with vibrant rugs all conspired to cool her temper. The trembling that afflicted her limbs had subsided by the time she arrived at the Jacuzzi that was built into a covered deck overlooking a sandy horseshoe sweep and the sea beyond.
‘This is incredible.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ a soft voice at her elbow agreed.
‘You scared me half to death!’ she accused, spinning around. She was already deeply regretting losing her temper in front of this man. Over the years she’d grown very adept at hiding her innermost feelings. The ability gave her an illusion of security. Suddenly she felt more vulnerable than she had done in years. Even the hateful Simon hadn’t succeeded in making her lose her dignity. ‘I thought you’d gone.’
‘As you see, I haven’t.’ His gaze was fixed on the distant horizon with an odd expression of longing.
‘Don’t let me keep you.’
‘I thought I’d have a shower.’
Lindy blinked. ‘You thought what?’
He stretched lazily, extending his back, making circular motions with his shoulders. The fabric of his shirt pulled taut, making Lindy conscious of the strength in his powerful body.
‘Shower,’ he elucidated helpfully. ‘It’s been a long day.’
‘You can’t…’ She was pretty certain that her sister’s hospitality didn’t extend this far; her own certainly didn’t. As far as Lindy was concerned, the sooner this man left her in peace the better! Her eyes widened as he calmly began unbuttoning his shirt. To her relief—damn it, she was relieved—he stopped halfway.
‘Didn’t Hope mention it? I’m her house guest.’
Lindy froze as, whistling, he casually strolled from the room. It couldn’t be true, she told herself. Share a roof with that wretched man—no way! Her total rejection of the idea left no room for mental negotiation of the situation. Heart pumping out adrenaline, she strode after him and pushed open the door from behind which she could hear sounds of activity.
‘I’m not staying here…’ she began hotly, barging into the room.
‘My bathroom in particular, or this house?’ he enquired with a deadpan expression. He didn’t appear in the least put out that he was standing there clad only in a pair of black boxer shorts. He kicked the trousers that lay at his feet to one side.
Lindy made a last-ditch attempt to recapture some of her legendary cool and failed miserably. She was staring, her eyes travelling upwards from his feet. She knew it, but was helpless to do anything else. He stretched up to switch on the shower and the muscles in his torso rippled.
On screen she’d seen he had a sexy, beautiful body, but the intimacy of a cinema was illusionary. In the flesh, quite literally, the basic earthiness of his appeal made a physical impact. From the spasm in her stomach and her dry, tight throat to the heavy, leaden sensation in her uncooperative limbs, she was transfixed by the spectacle.
‘Have you seen enough, or are you planning on joining me?’ The satiny quality of his deep voice had never been more apparent. ‘You do look as if you could do with cooling down,’ he observed. ‘If we’re going to be sharing a roof perhaps we should get the ground rules sorted out up front. It gives a guy a certain feeling of insecurity when even his bathroom isn’t private. I’ve had to deal with some determined fans in my time, but this is a first!’
It was the taunting quality in his voice that did it, made her react so childishly. The ‘you’re no different from all the others’ tone that made her hackles rise—and the disturbing possibility that there was the merest grain of truth in his words. The sponge was lying on the edge of the washbasin; she picked it up and lobbed it at his smirking face. Her aim