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The rebel and the artist
When Georgette Bainbridge first meets world-famous photographer Lukas Karel, it’s not sparks that fly but bags of flour! Feisty Georgette is staging a protest at the beauty pageant Lukas is judging — he might be gorgeous, but if he’s a chauvinist, then getting covered in flour is the least that he deserves!
Georgette might be proud of her aim, but it makes working with Lukas on an African photoshoot very awkward. Especially when she realizes he’s nothing like the man she imagined — in fact, he’s totally irresistible! And that’s before he kisses her…
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Excerpt
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Copyright
Chapter One
‘Lukas?’ Georgette Bainbridge felt her mouth go dry at her father’s suggestion. ‘You want me to work for Lukas!’ The day which had begun so badly suddenly became a disaster. ‘You can’t mean it!’ But one look at his face confirmed that he did.
Sir Charles Bainbridge threw the morning paper across the desk at his youngest daughter, who stood facing him with clenched hands and a mutinous expression. ‘I have had enough of this nonsense. It’s time you stopped making a nuisance of yourself and a fool of me.’ George didn’t need to look at the newspaper. She had the most vivid recollection of the incident, and could still almost feel the imprint of the policeman’s hand as he had manhandled her out of the road and into a van. And the reality of bruised ribs from thugs who had caused the near-riot. Angrily her father jabbed at the paper. ‘I’ve come to the end of my patience with you.’
‘The end of your patience …’ she spluttered. ‘Have you any idea … any idea … up here in your …’ she glared around at the opulent office ‘… ivory tower …’ she brushed away his exclamation of rage ‘… just what is going on down there?’ She pointed dramatically at the window.
Her father’s voice was icy. ‘I have a great deal more idea than you do what is going on in this world. Tell me what your demonstrations do!’ he challenged. ‘Have you found one abused child a home? Have you, to your knowledge, saved one single whale?’ he demanded. ‘Have you provided one homeless family with somewhere to live?’
‘Yes …’
‘I exclude the army of people you seem to have installed in your own house!’ George opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. A row with her father wouldn’t solve the far more immediate problem: to convince him that she couldn’t possibly go and work for a man like Lukas. But she wasn’t given the opportunity. ‘Well? Have you no answer? It’s unusual to find you lost for words, George.’
Shaken by his attack and tired from the night spent in a police cell, George subsided into the chair in front of his desk and let her eyes drop to the front-page headline: MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER ARRESTED AT DEMONSTRATION.
She sighed. It had been a peaceful march until a bunch of louts had started jeering and pushing them about. Her first reaction had been to reach for her camera, but they had seized it and smashed it, and she had struck out in blind fury. It was so unfair.
‘They broke my camera,’ she said, with a surge of unaccustomed self-pity.
‘I hope it was insured.’ Her father’s wry comment gave her pause. She hadn’t expected him to be pleased with her. But it wasn’t like him to be so angry. He was mostly amused by the scrapes she got into in pursuit of one cause or another.
She tried to rouse him to her side. ‘That’s not the point, Pa. Those bullies broke up a peaceful demonstration for no better reason than they thought it would be a bit of a lark …’
‘Enough!’ Her father was rarely roused to serious anger, but clearly this time he was not to be cajoled. She stopped. ‘Thank you, Georgette.’
George cringed. If her father had stooped to calling her by that name she was in deep trouble. ‘I’m sorry.’
Her father’s smile caught her unawares. ‘Of course you are. You are always sorry, George.’ He stood up and walked across his opulent office to the wide windows looking out across the river. He recognised a certain truth in George’s accusation that his office was an ‘ivory tower’, but he wasn’t as cut off as she thought. He steeled himself to an unpleasant task, straightened his shoulders and turned to face her. ‘I’ve lost count of the times you have come to me and said you were “sorry”. You were sorry when you were expelled from boarding-school. Why was that, now?’
‘Kittens. The gardener was going to drown the kittens,’ she reminded him.
‘Oh, yes, kittens.’ The voice was heavy with irony. ‘However could I have forgotten the kittens? You held a protest. Hung a banner across the school gates, set up a picket-line. Quite remarkable powers of organisation for a girl of thirteen.’ He shook his head. ‘What a waste. You could have been a captain of industry by now.’
George felt a bubble of indignation rising in her throat. ‘There was no need to drown the poor little things. If they hadn’t wanted her to have kittens she should have been spayed. Anyway, it would all have been a storm in a teacup if Heather James hadn’t telephoned the Sun.’
‘Your first headline. Tell me, do you keep a scrapbook?’ George thought she caught a glimpse of a smile.
‘No.’ She shook her head.
‘A pity. It would doubtless make entertaining reading.’ He paused, frowning. ‘If I were not your father.’ She remained silent, hoping that he had finished. He hadn’t. ‘You were sorry when you were thrown out of art college. I was sorry about that too. They might have let you take your finals.’
‘I finished the course,’ she said defensively. ‘Examinations are an archaic form of assessment.’
‘Perhaps. You have great talent, George, and if you had had your “archaic” piece of paper you might have developed it instead of spending your time with a bunch of …’
‘They are my friends,’ she defended them hotly.
‘Hmm. Well, they are not the reason for this chat.’ He paused. ‘Are you aware that the cost of running that little house of yours in Paddington is almost as much as Odney Place?’
George winced. Her family home had twenty rooms and a staff of five. ‘I feed a lot of people,’ she said, defensively.
‘What on? Smoked salmon?’ He suddenly thumped the desk, making her jump. ‘You are twenty-two years old, George. Time enough to have learnt that you cannot personally take on the troubles of the world.’ He backed off, seemingly embarrassed by his outburst. ‘I’m sorry. But you can’t. As for this latest plan of yours, wanting to break into your capital to build a refuge for the homeless …’
She stared at him. ‘How do you know …?’ Then she brushed that aside as unimportant. ‘I can do something, Pa. While you sit up here making money there are children begging on the streets!’
He sighed. ‘There’s a lot that’s wrong with the world, George. But you’ll never beat the system like that!’ He waved his hand at the newspaper that lay on the desk between them. ‘Have you no shame? Dear God, it was bad enough that you were arrested, but why on earth didn’t you telephone? You didn’t have to spend the night in gaol.’
‘Would you have bailed out the others?’ Her father didn’t answer and she shrugged. ‘I didn’t think so.’ George was tired and dirty. She was in desperate need of a bath to wash away the pervasive police-station smell of disinfectant that clung to her clothes.
She stood up and went over to him, taking his hand. ‘Come on, Pa. It’s not that bad.’ There was a special smile that had never before failed her. But her father’s eyes met hers blankly, refusing to respond.
‘Not everyone has had your advantages, George. Some people have to go to work every day whether they want to or not. They don’t have the luxury of a private income.’ His eyes slid over her dishevelled appearance and he shook his head. ‘Not that anyone would know. Why can’t you be more like your sisters …?’
George snorted. ‘All tweeds and babies and dogs?’ She caught her father’s expression and held up her hands in mock defence. ‘I know. I know. I don’t appreciate you all, or how lucky I am …’
‘Well, perhaps you can learn to. I have stopped your credit cards from today. And your bank account.’
There was a moment of stillness between them. George’s thick dark brows drew together as she tried to take in what her father had said. ‘How can you do that?’ She shook her head. ‘You can’t do that …’ She pushed back long strands of hair that had escaped from her unhappy attempt at a French plait.
‘It seems that I can. I have deemed that you are no longer …’ He paused, seeming to choose his words with care. ‘No longer a fit and responsible person. I hope that it is a temporary aberration.’
‘You can’t do that!’ She took in the implacable expression on her father’s face, and her outrage turned to concern. ‘I’ve bills to pay, responsibilities …’
‘Bills will be paid under my signature.’ He looked up. ‘Your “responsibilities” are living rent free. They will, for the moment, have to provide their own food.’ Sir Charles opened the folder in front of him. ‘You are more fortunate than most. I have, as I said, already arranged a job for you.’ He looked up. ‘I’m afraid it is only temporary as assistant to Lukas on a location shoot. But then beggars can’t be choosers. Perhaps in Africa you will learn that there is worse to contend with than the welfare state.’
George sat down opposite her father and prepared at least to make a show of listening while she tried desperately to think of some way out of her predicament. One thing was certain—and her fingers strayed absently to her lips—there was no way that she could work with Lukas.
‘Now, George.’ Her father reclaimed her attention. She recognised the tone of voice. It was the one he reserved for particularly tiresome puppies. ‘Your plane leaves tonight. A room has been booked for you at the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi …’
‘Nairobi?’ Her heart skipped a beat in sudden excitement.
‘Mr Lukas will pick you up as soon as he can.’
His name brought her rudely back to earth. She shook her head. ‘No. It’s no good, Pa. Not Lukas. I can’t work with him.’
‘I don’t remember offering you a choice, George.’ Her father’s eyes narrowed. ‘I take it from all these protestations that you have already met the gentleman.’
‘Gentleman!’ That was the last thing she’d call him. And of course she’d met him. They had once had a memorable close encounter. One that she would heartily like to forget. There was nothing for it but to throw herself on her father’s mercy. ‘Please don’t do this to me. I can’t go! He’s …’
‘Yes?’ Sir Charles waited.
She took a deep breath. ‘I threw a bag of flour at him when he was judging an international beauty contest.’
Her father’s laughter was genuine. ‘I don’t remember being asked to bail you out,’ he prompted.
‘He didn’t press charges.’ George refused to look her father in the eye. Lukas had dealt with her personally. Very personally.
Sir Charles Bainbridge looked at his daughter with interest. ‘You’d better hope he doesn’t remember the incident as clearly as you obviously do.’
She remembered. And she was sure he would. She felt hot tears of humiliation welling up behind her lids. Why couldn’t he see that it was impossible for her? ‘He’s a dreadful man. Really. I won’t go. I absolutely refuse.’
‘Totally beyond the pale without a doubt. But a very fine photographer nevertheless. I am sure you can learn a great deal from him.’ Her father came round the desk and leaned against it. ‘This job will be a complete break from all this nonsense you’ve become involved in. Go willingly, George. And when you return, if you have done well …’ he raised a hand to prevent her interruption ‘… I will be prepared to discuss your plans for a refuge.’
‘Why?’ she interrupted. ‘Why now?’
Charles Bainbridge considered his favourite daughter. She was so like her mother, that high sense of justice. He sighed. ‘You need a focus. You racket around endorsing any cause that takes your heart.’ He smiled at her. ‘It’s a good heart, I don’t deny it, but you’re wasting yourself. Burning up your energy in too many directions at once.’
George saw a chink of light and dived in, sitting forward eagerly. ‘But I could start right away. If you’ll help I’ll stay away from protest marches, I promise.’ She smiled winningly.
‘George!’ She subsided back into the chair and shrugged. It had been worth a try. But her father had continued. ‘I am asking you to do something for me. Something you’re good at. Try and think of me as a deserving cause; that should help.’ He too had a special smile to help him get his way. ‘It’s surely not much to ask in return for that.’ He waved at the newspaper. ‘Just do a good job for Lukas.’ He tried to turn his order into a joke. ‘Or he may refuse to work for me again. And that would make me very cross indeed.’ He held out a folder containing her ticket. ‘There are a few traveller’s cheques with your ticket. Pocket money, that’s all.’
She ignored the folder. ‘And if I refuse to go?’
Her father shrugged, the smile gone. ‘You had better hope that your friends are as generous to you as you have been to them.’
‘I see. Cut off without a penny. Oh, well. I suppose there’s always the DSS.’
Her father’s eyes hardened. ‘Don’t you think they have enough calls on their resources already?’
George defied him for a long moment, then gave way before his determined look. ‘You’ll really help with the refuge?’
‘You have my promise,’ he assured her.
She took a deep breath. Her father’s support would mean the difference between success and failure—a far more important consideration than her embarrassing encounter with Lukas. ‘I’d better get going, then.’ She picked up the folder, turned, hefted her battered leather sack over her shoulder, and walked briskly to the door where she paused and turned. ‘And I am sorry about that. Truly.’ She pointed to the newspaper.
‘Keep Lukas happy and you’re forgiven.’ He smiled. ‘Good luck.’
I’ve a feeling I’m going to need that, George thought as she closed the door. Keeping him ‘happy’ might not be that easy.
Her father’s secretary handed her a longed-for cup of coffee. ‘These are tablets to take against malaria, George. You should have been taking them for a couple of weeks, but follow the instructions on the bottle.’
‘Thanks, Bishop. But it’s not the mosquitoes I’m worried about.’
Miss Bishop laughed. ‘You mustn’t worry about Lukas, George. He is so charming. Not a bit the way they write about him in the papers.’
‘Really?’ George raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought it was his “charm” they concentrated on.’
Miss Bishop bridled. ‘You know that you can’t believe what you read in the papers.’ She saw George’s expression and had the grace to blush. ‘Well, not everything. When Lukas telexed this morning for a replacement for Michael, I said to Sir Charles that it was just the thing …’ Her voice trailed off as she realised that she had given herself away.
‘You suggested this? Oh, Bishop, I thought you were my friend.’ She took the bottle of tablets. ‘Why does he need a replacement?’
‘He didn’t go into details, it was just a short telex. But the poor young man who went out with him is in the hospital. Now I’ve bought you some sun-block creams and insect repellents. I didn’t think you’d have much time. Is there anything else I can get you?’
George smiled. ‘A new camera. Those beasts smashed mine yesterday.’
Her father’s secretary looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure that I’m allowed … your father was most insistent …’
‘It’s covered by insurance. You can handle the claim for me, can’t you? Dear Bishop? Please? I can’t go to Africa without a camera.’
Miss Bishop relented. ‘No, I suppose not. And if it’s insured I’m not giving you cash, am I?’ Having talked herself into helping, she handed George a notepad. ‘Write down what you want. Henry can get it for you and he’ll bring it when he picks you up to take you to the airport tonight.’
‘Bless you. I shall need some film, too.’ She startled the older woman with a hug. ‘Here you are.’ She quickly scribbled down the make and model. ‘And some of these notebooks and pencils?’
Miss Bishop sighed. ‘I’ll send them with Henry. He’s waiting to take you home now.’
‘You’re a brick!’
Once home—the little house in the back streets near Paddington Station she had bought a few months earlier—George let the bright mask slip. The place was a tip. The kitchen was full of her recent cell mates. They had eaten, and the debris littered every surface. George squeezed over to the fridge and as she expected there was nothing. Just an empty milk bottle. She wondered, not for the first time, if any of them had ever washed a plate in their lives, or gave a thought to where the food they ate came from. She sighed. If she had to squat in a condemned house, or live in a cardboard box, she probably wouldn’t put washing-up very high on her list of activities either.
‘Could someone get a pint of milk, please?’ she asked as calmly as she could. She was ignored until she offered a note, then someone slid from a chair, pocketed the proffered cash and disappeared. She hoped he would come back with some milk. Change would be too much to expect.
She was so tired. They had spent the night singing protest songs, high on the adrenalin of arrest. But there was no time to sleep now. She would have to do that on the plane.
George unlocked her bedroom door. She wasn’t quite as gullible as her father seemed to believe, she thought grimly. Her room was her refuge, inviolate, pristine, untouched by whatever disorder took over the rest of the house.
She stared for a moment in horror as she caught sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Quickly she stripped off her clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. It was fierce and reviving and afterwards she wrapped her hair in a towel, slipped into a wrap and went to examine her wardrobe, wondering just what would be appropriate for two weeks working in East Africa.
Her hand fell on the skirt she had worn to the beauty contest demonstration. A group of them had got in with tickets, pretending to be genuine spectators, and they wanted to look as if they belonged. They had decided on the role of models, hoping to attract attention. George had made the effort to look as stunning as possible, had secretly enjoyed it. She had worn a short black suede skirt and matching knee-high boots and she’d bought a cream silk shirt especially for the occasion. Then, because she was a perfectionist, even in the art of protesting, she had paid an unaccustomed visit to a hair salon, leaving after what seemed like hours, with her long hair a sleek gold curve over her shoulder. The final touch had been a professional make-up session. ‘I want to look sexy,’ she had told the girl tentatively, and she had been slightly shocked by the woman who had looked back from her mirror. Her violet eyes had looked sultry and twice their normal size, and her full mouth wider than she remembered.
Quite heady with the attention she had attracted when she arrived at the Albert Hall, she had played the vamp for all she was worth. And then Lukas had taken his seat among the judges and glanced around at the crowd. She had been in the front, her bag of flour concealed in the black suede fringed bag she had carried with her.
His eyes had fastened upon her with open appreciation as he took in every detail of her appearance in a slow and deliberate appraisal that made her blush to the roots of her beautifully coiffured hair. It was that look, the speculative lift of an eyebrow, that had made him her special target for the night. If he hadn’t been so attractive she could have coped. But she found her eyes continually drawn to the magnificent black-clad shoulders, fascinated by the way his hair curled into his neck. Hoping and yet dreading that he would look at her again. And he had looked.
They had had to sit through the early rounds. As the girls had paraded in their national costumes and evening dresses Lukas had given her rather more attention than the contestants. She would have thought he was trying to pick her up if he had so much as smiled, but he hadn’t. He had just stared. Well, she had shown him. That long moment when they were waiting for the result, when the television cameras had nothing special to look at, that was when they had struck with their bags of flour and soot.
But Lukas hadn’t been a passive victim. He had grabbed a handful of her blouse and hung on despite her struggles until the buttons had given way. Instead of leaving it behind, and beating a retreat in her bra, she had tried to wrest it from him. Her efforts to cover herself had given him a second chance, and he had not wasted it. With one swift movement he had his arm around her waist, turned her over his knee and lifted that skirt. She shuddered at the recollection of his hand slapping her backside with considerable enthusiasm. Then, in the general pandemonium as the others had been arrested, Lukas had dodged the law and carried her backstage under his arm.
His black hair had been full of the flour she had dumped on him and as he shook his head a cloud of it rose around him and then descended over them both, coating his beautifully cut dinner-jacket. Her satisfaction had been short-lived.
‘Are you going to scram, or do you want some more?’ he demanded, as he finally handed her the treacherous blouse.
Scarlet, she struggled into it, clutching it around her. ‘Why didn’t you just leave me to be arrested with my friends?’
His eyes were like slate. ‘Because, Miss Feminist, I prefer not to be the butt of the tabloids. I didn’t duck out here to save you. If it was personal publicity you wanted, you should have thrown your flour at someone else. I’m going to clean up. That’s the way out.’ He pointed down the corridor. Trembling with rage and frustration, she raised her hand to slap him.
‘Mr Lukas, sir, is that one of the trouble-makers?’ A security guard had appeared behind her and she whirled round, but Lukas anticipated her intention of giving herself up and was too quick for her. His arm slipped around her waist and before she could protest he had pulled her close, holding her effortlessly.
‘No. A friend, she’s just leaving. Perhaps you would escort her safely to the rear exit? Just in case there are any more hooligans about.’ She struggled angrily to free herself, but Lukas had no intention of letting her go so easily. Instead he bent swiftly over her and, realising his intent, she closed her eyes, desperately hoping that what she couldn’t see wasn’t happening. The first touch of his lips destroyed that illusion. This was reality with a vengeance. She had never been kissed to such effect before, or by anyone with the ability to turn her bones to putty. When at last Lukas had finished with her, she was too shaken to protest at his cavalier treatment. She merely sighed. He stared at her for a moment, his cool grey eyes shaded by unbelievably long lashes. ‘There’s hope for you yet,’ he murmured finally, releasing her. ‘Here, you’d better have this.’ He slipped his jacket around her shoulders. Then louder, for the security guard, ‘I’ll see you later,’ he drawled before disappearing in the direction of the dressing-rooms. ‘Keep the bed warm, sweetheart.’ And she had had to endure the sly smirk of the security man all the way to the exit.