His Personal Agenda Read online

  ‘Take your jacket off.’

  ‘Bossy,’ he said, but his voice caught a little in his throat and he turned away to peel off his denim jacket. She took it from him and hung it behind the door. Then he swallowed hard and stared at the ceiling as she took his hand between hers and submerged it in the warm water.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.

  ‘Like hell,’ he said, because that was what she expected. He wished it did, at least it might distract his rampaging libido long enough for him to get it back under control. But the stinging was easily counteracted by the gentle touch of her fingers. Matt had the feeling that he could undergo major surgery without anaesthetic if Nyssa Blake held his hand.

  ‘There, that should do it.’ She pulled the plug and the water ran away. She pulled a small towel from the rack and gently dried his hand and fingers, dabbing away a tiny ooze of blood that seeped from a graze.

  He could have stayed there all night while she did it. Not a good idea. The bathroom was too small and she was too close.

  ‘Thanks,’ Matt said, somewhat abruptly. ‘That’ll do it.’ He pulled the door open and headed swiftly in the direction of his brandy, draining it in one swallow.

  ‘Does it hurt that much?’

  ‘What?’ He turned to find Nyssa watching him with a slightly perplexed frown creasing her smooth forehead. God, he was handling this badly. ‘Oh. No. It’s fine now. You’ve got the gentle touch.’

  ‘Yes, well, you get used to dealing with cuts and abrasions when you’re in this business. Security guards aren’t too bothered about where they put their bolt-cutters when you’ve chained yourself to a bulldozer.’

  ‘I didn’t think you got involved in anything like that.’

  ‘When needs must,’ she said, with a careless shrug.

  He barely stopped himself from saying something stupid, something patronising along the lines of How did a delicate little creature like you get involved in something like this? She might look fragile, but he was still feeling the kicks she had given him. Patronising might just get him another one. And this time he would deserve it.

  ‘Are you planning on chaining yourself to the front door of the cinema?’

  She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘That depends on Mr Parker.’ Then, as if to demonstrate that was all she was prepared to say on the subject, she turned and picked up the brandy he had poured for her. She sipped it, then pulled a face and handed it to him. ‘I knew there was a reason I didn’t drink. Here, I think you need this more than I do. Can I make myself a cup of tea?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ he invited, and she moved across the room to the kettle, busying herself with a cup and a teabag while she waited for it to boil. ‘There are some biscuits in my bag if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Biscuits?’

  ‘Chocolate ones. You never know when you’re going to have to miss out on the canapés…’

  ‘Feel free to go back and help yourself, Crosby,’ she said irritably. ‘I’d hate you to miss out on a free beanfeast.’

  He remembered the twenty pounds he’d donated. Hardly free, but he let it pass. ‘You think there’ll be anything left? I imagine the rent-a-mob crowd will have taken the booze and trashed the food.’ Nyssa Blake swore, briefly but comprehensively. ‘Is that the kind of language that they taught you at the school for young ladies you went to?’ he asked. ‘The Sacred Heart, wasn’t it?’ She stared at him. ‘You see, Nyssa, I’ve done my homework on you.’

  ‘You mean you really are a journalist?’

  ‘One with a scoop,’ he replied, avoiding the direct lie this time. It was a bit late, but he was doing his best.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ she said as the kettle boiled. ‘Big story.’ She dropped a teabag into a cup and filled it with water. ‘Nyssa Blake had a cup of tea in my bedroom after a scuffle at the Assembly Rooms. I offered her a biscuit—no, wait—’ she held up a small hand for attention ‘—a chocolate biscuit, but she declined. She drank her tea and left shortly afterwards.’

  Matt laughed. ‘You’d better stick to bulldozer-bashing, Nyssa, if that’s the best you can do with this story. You’ll certainly never make a journalist.’

  ‘I have no wish to be a journalist.’

  ‘You planned to read English at university,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yes, well, there’s not much future in that.’ She discarded the teabag and after a tussle with a tub of milk finally managed to open it and pour it into her tea. Then, looking at him out of the corner of her eye, she said, ‘Okay, so tell me, how would a big freelance journalist like you handle the story?’

  She said that as if she still didn’t buy the journalist bit, but Matt, leaving the armchair for Nyssa, ignored the disbelief in her voice and stretched out on the bed. ‘Broadsheet or tabloid?’

  ‘Oh, let’s go for broke. Give me tabloid.’

  He grinned and sipped thoughtfully at the brandy for a moment. ‘How about this. “Tonight, before a room packed with journalists, a daring attempt was made to kidnap Nyssa Blake. The dazzling redhead—”’ Nyssa snorted “‘—the dazzling redhead, twenty-two-year-old stepdaughter of millionaire businessman James Lambert, was grabbed on the point of launching her campaign to stop the destruction of the art deco Gaumont Cinema. Opened in Delvering in 1931 by home-grown silent screen star Doris Catchpole—’” Nyssa reprised the snort, except that this time it came closer to a giggle “‘—the Gaumont is due to be demolished by developers and replaced by a supermarket.’” He took another sip of the brandy. “‘The meeting had only just started when, as the lights dimmed for a slide presentation, the projector was overturned and smashed and Miss Blake was grabbed by an unknown assailant. Matt Crosby, thirty-four, freelance journalist, fought off her attacker and in the confusion carried Miss Blake to safety. Later, comforted by her rescuer in the safety of his hotel bedroom—’”

  ‘Oh, right, I get it—’

  “‘—his hotel bedroom,’” Matt continued firmly, “‘Miss Blake bathed Mr Crosby’s injuries and wept, devastated by what had happened—’”

  ‘Stop it, Matt Crosby, journalist, aged thirty-four. That’s quite enough.’

  ‘You didn’t like it?’

  ‘I’d have to give you an E for effort, I suppose—’

  ‘Only an E?’

  ‘That’s all you deserve. You used far too many long sentences for the tabloids. But you’re clearly quite twisted enough to be a journalist. It would definitely be a U for accuracy.’

  ‘A U?’ he queried.

  ‘Ungraded.’

  ‘It’s nothing but the unvarnished truth,’ he protested.

  ‘Really? What about the fictitious Doris Catchpole?’ she demanded. ‘And when did I weep or say I was devastated by what happened this evening?’

  ‘Oh, that. Just a little poetic licence.’ He grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want me printing what you actually did say, would you? Not that a family newspaper would actually print the words, just the first letter and then some asterisks, but the great reading public would get the general idea…’

  ‘I’ll bet they would.’ She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘I don’t think I like you very much, Matt Crosby.’

  ‘It’s just a job, Nyssa. It’s nothing personal.’ He offered her the brandy glass. ‘Changed your mind about that drink?’

  ‘Yes. And the interview.’ She abandoned her tea and headed for the door. ‘I can’t say that it’s been nice knowing you…it hasn’t.’ She swept into the tiny vestibule and out of sight. He heard her flip the latch. Then, ‘Oh, hell!’

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked as she retreated back into his room.

  ‘There’s a crowd of journalists camped outside my bedroom door.’

  ‘In a hotel of this quality? I’m shocked.’

  Nyssa glared at him. He was having considerable difficulty in keeping a straight face, she realised. ‘No, you’re not,’ she said. ‘You think it’s funny.’

  He didn’t deny it. ‘But not entirely unexpected. In fact I seem to remember warni
ng you that it was likely. Of course,’ he said, more soberly, ‘there’s always the possibility that not all of them are journalists. Did they see you?’

  ‘No. They were concentrating on the stairs.’

  He relaxed, leaning back against the thickly padded headboard. ‘It’ll have to be the fire escape, then. It’s along the hall.’ He put down the glass and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘Oh, no. That won’t do. They’ll all see you leaving my room. Oh well, never mind. It will give credence to my scoop.’

  ‘It won’t be a scoop,’ she pointed out with a certain amount of satisfaction. ‘Not if they all have the story.’

  ‘But I’ll be writing it from the inside.’

  She said something rude. Then, a little desperately, ‘You could leave without anyone noticing and let me stay here tonight. And if you were a gentleman you wouldn’t say a word to anyone.’

  ‘That’s true.’ If he were a gentleman he wouldn’t be having the kind of thoughts that were racketing through his head right now. But if her assailants were determined enough she would be a whole lot safer with him tonight. ‘But I thought we’d already agreed that I was a journalist. The one surely precludes the other? And you wouldn’t throw me out into the cold, cold night, would you? Not after I’ve risked life and limb to save you.’

  ‘It isn’t a cold, cold night. It’s still August—just. And I’m sure the hotel will be able to fix you up with something—’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Nyssa. If I leave this room it would only take half a brain to work out why.’ He shifted across to the side of the bed and patted the space beside him. ‘But you’re most welcome to stay.’

  ‘Asterisk you, Matt Crosby,’ she said, then crossed to the window, throwing the casement wide open. The door wasn’t the only exit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MATT CROSBY’S room was at the side of the hotel, situated over a quiet side street. Unlike the hotel corridor it was deserted, and the first floor wasn’t so very far from the ground. If she’d been dressed in practical clothes and a pair of boots Nyssa wouldn’t have thought twice about swinging over the sill and risking the drop.

  But she was wearing a designer dress that might have cost a small fortune but didn’t offer much by way of protection from a rolling fall. And her shoes had little to commend them but fashion. Added to which her car keys were in her handbag, along with her wallet, lost in the scuffle at the Assembly Rooms. No doubt someone would have picked it up. She just hoped it was a friendly someone.

  Which reminded her that she really should call Sky to reassure her that she was safe. But the thought didn’t appeal very much. In truth, the idea depressed her. She and Sky had been getting further and further apart with each campaign and Nyssa just wasn’t in the mood for a long ‘I told you so’ lecture on the stupidity of offering herself up as a target.

  The thought of a reverse charge call to Gil from the local phone box didn’t hold a lot of charm either. He wouldn’t actually say, I told you so, but she’d be able to hear him thinking it. And he’d come and take her back to his cottage and Kitty. Definitely not an option…

  She glanced back at Crosby. Heavy lids hooded his eyes but she knew that he was watching her, just as she sensed that she only had to ask him for help and he would give it. He was simply teasing her. She was almost sure he had been teasing her about the story he would write, too. Almost. It was so long since anyone had teased her she couldn’t be quite sure she was reading the signs right.

  Her father had used to tease her all the time. Gil too. But her father was dead and Gil…well, he’d stopped teasing her about the same time he’d met Kitty.

  ‘Well, are you going to jump for it?’ Matt Crosby asked, after a while.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ she retaliated edgily.

  ‘Nothing. But I’d be grateful if you’d hurry up and make up your mind. There’s a bit of a draught from that window.’

  ‘You are—’ she began, but he cut her off.

  ‘I know, but shut the window. I’m susceptible to cold.’

  ‘It’s not in the least bit cold.’

  ‘Then I must be shivering at the thought of what could happen when you hit the pavement. I’m a bit squeamish that way.’ Not exactly teasing. But his words still gave her a ridiculously warm feeling. The kind of feeling that might, if a girl wasn’t careful, end in tears. She turned away, quickly, but he got up and crossed to the window, looking down at the pavement for a moment before closing it for her. ‘It’s a long way down, Nyssa,’ he said gently, as she began to protest. ‘You’ll be safe enough here.’ He pulled the curtains across, shutting out the deepening twilight before switching on a lamp. ‘I promise.’ Then he turned and looked down at her with the kind of even grey eyes that made you feel safe.

  Safe? Cherished? Tears even? Whoa, girl, just what is going on here? Nyssa asked herself. Since when have you wanted to feel safe?

  Since someone clamped his hand over your mouth and pinned your arms to your side and you knew, you just knew, you’d gone too far this time: that this time you were not going to get away with it.

  Maybe Gil was right. Maybe she did need someone she could rely on. An outsider with no axe to grind, who was there just for her. Matt Crosby insisted he was a journalist, not part of Gil’s group at all, and that should have made her feel less safe, not more. But it didn’t. He had acted by himself to save her, not because Gil had sent him. That alone made him just a bit special. And he was special. She had recognised that the moment she’d set eyes upon him.

  Matt Crosby had that tough, classless look about him, moving easily, as if beneath the jeans and the faded collarless shirt he was really fit. Not heavily muscled, but lean and sinewy and hard as hell. A bit like her father. She wondered if he had ever been a soldier, but she didn’t ask him because if he said yes her illusions would be shattered, and she would know that her first guess had been right, that he was one of Gil’s chosen men.

  It came as something of a shock to realise that she wanted to think that she had chosen him.

  ‘A broken leg wouldn’t help your campaign, would it?’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘What? Oh, no. I suppose not.’ Then, ‘Those plaster casts can really slow you down. Matt?’

  The way she said his name tugged at something deep, long buried. ‘Yes?’ he asked, somewhat hoarsely.

  She glanced up at him. ‘What kind of story did you plan to write about me?’

  Since that was part of his cover for getting to meet her, Matt had that one already worked out. ‘I was hoping to spend some time with you, with your group. Find out how you set about making life hard for some poor developer. Why? Do you fancy yourself on the cover of a glossy magazine after all?’

  Not particularly. And the idea was crazy, stupid. Except that maybe, just maybe, this time it would be a good idea to have someone at her side she could rely on in a crisis, the way she’d once felt she could depend on Sky. And if he was writing a big story about her he would be there, at her side, and no one would question it…

  Nyssa was suddenly confused, remembering the kick of something hot and sweet in the pit of her stomach when she’d first seen him. She didn’t know what she wanted. Or maybe she did. She just didn’t want to confront the reality, preferring to cling to something precious, something out of reach. Something safe.

  She turned away from him to lean back against the wall. ‘It occurred to me that tonight might not be a one-off,’ she said. ‘It was all very well organised, don’t you think?’

  Matt thought about the four men who had positioned themselves to strike the moment the lights went out. ‘I’d say they knew what they were doing,’ he agreed.

  ‘And it was just luck that you were there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She gave a little shiver. ‘You’re right, it is cold.’

  ‘You should have had that brandy. Or, failing that, hot sweet tea.’ He picked up the cup, then put it down again. ‘You’ve let it go cold. That just leaves bed.�
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  ‘Bed is impossible too,’ she said. ‘My room is staked out by a gang of reporters who won’t give me a bit of peace…’

  ‘Forgive me, but I wasn’t under the impression that you were looking for peace.’ She didn’t answer. ‘You could always take mine.’

  She looked up at him, not quite sure what he was offering. ‘Your room?’

  ‘My bed,’ he said, and she realised that while he might—just—be willing to take the armchair if she insisted, he wasn’t about to vacate his room and leave her in sole possession.

  She opened her mouth to protest. Then she closed it. Then she swallowed and said, ‘But I can’t stay here all night…’

  ‘Why not? You’d share a night watch with me, wouldn’t you? Chained to that art deco staircase to stop Parker’s men tearing it down?’

  ‘That isn’t the same.’ It was his turn to remain silent, but she sensed the tenseness in him, saw the heat darken his eyes. He knew it wasn’t the same, and in the silence desire stirred the air like a sultry breeze lifting the leaves in an ancient woodland. It stole through Nyssa’s body like some old, dark secret, and licked along her thighs, leaving her weak, trembling…

  Could this be it? The moment to put Gil and her childhood feelings behind her? Fear drove passion… That had to be it, she decided, almost with relief. This was an adrenalin charge, nothing more serious than that. Well, that was fine. Perfect, almost. It was emotion that scared her. And slowly she raised her hand to the first of the buttons that fastened her dress.

  For a moment she just let her fingers lie there. One button would be all the answer he needed. One tiny jet button. Nothing. Everything.

  As she slipped the loop she heard the catch in his breathing and the tiny sound seemed to start something inside her, a quickening, an urgent need to be held in a pair of strong arms, held and loved. Now. This minute. And as she raised her lashes, looked Matt Crosby full in the eyes, she saw an answering need simmering in their depths.