Untamed
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

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

‘MISS KEILLY GRANT, I presume?’

She looked up with a start, used to having the beach to herself this time of the evening, seven o’clock being too late for the children to be here playing, and too early for the late night strollers walking their dogs.

The man standing several feet away from her as she vigorously dried her hair after her swim certainly didn’t look as if he fitted into either of those categories. Her first thought was that he was big and powerful, her second that he could be that third category of people that occasionally wandered down to Beachy Cove, the sort of man her Aunt Sylvie was always warning her about—a man looking for an easy pick-up. The cove was usually full of such men during the short summer season, all of them out for a little holiday fun and sure she could provide it. But this man looked too handsome to be that type either, surely having women chasing him, not the other way around! Besides, there was the puzzle of him knowing her name.

Nevertheless, she stood up to pull her full-length beach robe over her head, and pulled the zip up to her chin, glad of the warmth of the towelling material after her dip in the coolness of the October sea. The task of covering herself completed, she turned her attention once more to the man standing a short distance away.

He hadn’t moved as she dressed, his hands still thrust into the pockets of his thick sheepskin jacket, his shoulders broad and powerful, as was his chest, his legs long and lean in the fitted denims of faded blue, tancoloured boots on his feet. For all of the casualness of his appearance his clothes looked expensive, and Keilly raised her gaze to his face with more than just idle curiosity. Looking at each feature separately, the piercingly deep blue eyes, the long straight nose, firm but sensual mouth, and strong square jaw, he was nothing spectacular, but put them all together and he was—breathtaking. At least, she assumed his jaw was strong, it was difficult to tell beneath the neatly trimmed beard and moustache, usually finding that such facial hair was grown to hide the weakness of a chin or mouth. In this man’s case she doubted that were true; he exuded power and assurance, the deep blue eyes looking at her steadily, as if he didn’t allow himself any kind of weakness. His hair was thick and dark, several grey streaks laced through its mahogany colour, although the beard and moustache showed no such ageing. His age was hard to define, perhaps his early thirties, although the lines of experience fanning out from the blue eyes seemed to say he had knowledge far beyond those calendar years.

Keilly took in all this about him in a matter of seconds, knowing he had taken the same few seconds to appraise her own appearance. And she knew it couldn’t be very favourable! The salt water had left the feathered style of her shoulder length black hair tangled and lacklustre, needing the shower she always took after her daily swim to give it back its naturally glossy beauty. Her face was bare of make-up, naturally sooty black lashes framing dark grey eyes that could often look blue, her nose short and stub, her full mouth a deep pink colour, her chin small and determined. It wasn’t an unattractive face but neither was it a beautiful one, and her lack of make-up made her appear younger than her twenty-two years. But her body, despite her smallness in stature, was completely adult, full breasts, a slender waist and gently curving hips, her legs long and attractive. And the man in front of her hadn’t missed a single inch of her appearance, not before she donned the towelling robe or after, the black bikini showing the tan she still had from the summer months.

She didn’t like being made to feel self-conscious about her appearance; as the receptionist in the hotel owned by her aunt and uncle she was usually coolly assured in any situation, had learnt to deal with people with calm patience and understanding. But this man made her feel inadequate in a way she didn’t like, her chin rising with stubborn pride. ‘Yes, I’m Keilly Grant,’ she answered him coolly. ‘How did you know who I was?’ Because he obviously had known. She had watched his approach as he walked down to the beach from the cliff, and he hadn’t even hesitated, coming straight over to her.

His mouth quirked, his teeth very white against the darkness of the surrounding hair. ‘Your aunt told me to look for the only lunatic down here swimming,’ he looked pointedly at the deserted beach. ‘You appear to be it,’ he mocked, the blue eyes full of humour.

His voice was deep and attractive, as smooth as honey, filling Keilly with a pleasurable warmth that she dismissed as being ridiculous. She didn’t even know who this man was, let alone feel attracted to him! ‘My aunt told you where I was,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Why were you looking for me in the first place?’

He hunched down even further into his fleecy jacket as a strong October wind blew in from the sea, the fine golden sand about them whipped into the air to land painfully against their faces. ‘Could we get off the beach now that you’ve finished your swim?’ The lines had increased about his eyes where he had narrowed them against the wind. ‘You’re likely to catch pneumonia!’

With a shrug Keilly bent to thrust her wet towel into her beach bag, dangling her shoes from the other hand as they walked across the softness of the sand that led up to the pathway that went to the road on the cliff. ‘I only stay in the water a few minutes,’ she offered the information stiffly. ‘I’ve swum every day like this since I was a child. And I rarely, if ever, even get a cold,’ she announced confidently.

The man at her side glanced back at the grey-black of the Irish Sea, shivering involuntarily. ‘It looks freezing!’ he grimaced.

‘It is,’ she gave an amused grin. ‘But I can’t stand the way it gets so crowded down here during the summer months.’

He quirked dark brows. ‘When your aunt and uncle run a hotel?’

‘I know,’ she pulled a face. ‘I should be glad we have the business. But in the summer you can hardly get near the water. Then I have to come down at five o’clock in the morning.’

He held her arm as she bent to put on her shoes, maintaining that hold as they began the steep ascent up the cliff path. ‘You like to be alone?’ he asked softly.

‘I don’t like to see natural beauty marred by commercialism,’ her voice was stilted as she tried to release her arm from his grasp—and was effortlessly restrained from doing so. There was strength in the lean fingers that clasped about her upper arm, a strength she felt sure was tempered so as not to bruise her more delicate flesh. Nevertheless, she didn’t like the way he held her, still had no idea who he was or what he was doing here. ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she turned to look at him, night beginning to fall now. ‘Why were you looking for me?’

‘I was interested in meeting the woman who wrote so scathingly about Rod Bartlett.’

‘Not another reporter!’ She gave an exasperated sigh, wrenching her arm away from him to glare up into the deeply tanned face that must have been at least a foot above her in the rapidly falling darkness, this man well over six feet in height, moving with natural grace for such a big man.

‘Another one?’ he asked curiously, pushing both hands back into his pockets.

Keilly gave him an impatient look. ‘Ever since I wrote that letter in reply to a magazine article that was totally egotistical about a man who should be able to earn a living more reputably than by taking his clothes off in a film that had no other purpose than to flaunt his body, I have been inundated with reporters trying to find out what my angle is.’ Her mouth twisted with distaste. ‘Most of them seem to think I’m a scorned lover.’

‘And are you?’

The quietly voiced question had the effect of making her anger flare higher than ever. ‘No, I am not!’ she snapped furiously.

‘Then what is your angle?’

Her eyes flashed a warning. ‘Just who are you?’

‘Another reporter, I’m afraid,’ he revealed with regret. ‘Rick Richards,’ he held out his hand to her.

Keilly ignored it, not even breathing hard from the exertion as they reached the level of the road, although it irked her to see that neither was Rick Richards, obviously a man who kept himself in condition. She could feel grudging respect for that, even if she heartily disliked his profession.

His hand dropped back to his side as he once again fell into step beside her. ‘Nice to meet you too,’ he derided softly.

She didn’t answer, just wanting to shake him off as she had the other reporters, wishing now that she had never given in to the impulse to write that scathing letter to the widely circulated magazine. It was just that it made her blood boil when she read what a brilliant actor Rod Bartlett was, how good looking, how macho, when she knew what sort of man he really was. He was egotistical, completely selfish, giving no thought to anyone but himself and furthering his career. His three year, much-publicised, affair with a woman ten years his senior several years ago was proof of that. Until he became Veronica King’s lover he had been virtually unknown; after moving in with her he had suddenly made meteoric stardom. And he hadn’t cared who he trod on or who he hurt to get there. He would be thirty years of age now, had been much in demand for almost ten years—and Keilly couldn’t even bring herself to go and see even one of the twenty or so films he had made during that time. She just wasn’t interested in Rod Bartlett and how wonderful everyone thought he was, his female fans going wild when it was revealed that in his latest film he actually appeared naked for several minutes. The film was still doing the rounds of the cinemas six months after its release, was reputedly breaking box-office records.

‘My refusal to speak about the matter is not a personal insult to you, Mr Richards——’

‘Rick,’ he put in with that smoothly charming voice. ‘I prefer Rick.’

She shot him an irritated glance. ‘Well, my refusal to talk about Rod Bartlett is simply because I don’t have any more to say on the subject.’

‘Probably not,’ he gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You were pretty vocal in your letter. Now what was it you said about the fact that Rod Bartlett hasn’t returned to this, his home-town, for almost twelve years? Ah yes,’ his mouth twisted with humour. ‘ “Perhaps Mr Bartlett is too ashamed to show his face here—or any other part of his anatomy that cinema-goers are now so familiar with.” I think I have that more or less right, don’t I?’ he mused.

Hot colour had stained her cheeks at his word-perfect quote from her letter. She had written it with searing contempt, little dreaming it would cause such a stir. The first reporter to come here and try to interview her had come from the magazine itself, and after her had come a steady stream of them, all looking for some as-yet undiscovered scandal in Rod Bartlett’s past. Keilly hadn’t been about to tell them anything, and she didn’t intend Rick Richards to be any different. She just wanted to forget she had ever written the damned letter.

‘But not you, Keilly?’

‘Not me what?’ she frowned at the question, not understanding it.

‘You aren’t familiar with the anatomy of Rod Bartlett?’

‘How dare you!’ she flared indignantly. ‘I’ve never even met the man!’

‘I meant up on the big screen,’ he mocked.

Her mouth twisted with derision. ‘I have no wish to see Rod Bartlett up on the “big screen” or anywhere else. He just doesn’t interest me.’

Rick nodded. ‘But why did you use the word ashamed? Does he have a wife and ten kids hidden down here somewhere?’ he mocked.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she snapped.

‘Then what is the big secret?’

‘There isn’t one!’ she almost shouted her exasperation. ‘I just don’t happen to agree with the general consensus that Rod Bartlett has the sex appeal of Rudolph Valentino, the good looks of Paul Newman, Steve McQueen, and Robert Redford all rolled into one dynamic package! I’m entitled to my opinion, Mr Richards.’

He held up his hands defensively. ‘I’m not disputing that. It just seemed to me, and obviously to others too, that it was a very personal attack. Too personal in some ways.’

Once again the colour darkened her cheeks, and she was relieved to see they were nearing the hotel where she lived with her aunt and uncle. ‘I told you, Mr—Rick,’ she amended at his raised brows. ‘I’ve never met the man.’

‘No,’ he gave her a considering look. ‘You look a little young for him.’

She bristled resentfully. ‘He prefers older women, I understand.’

‘You mean Veronica King?’ the man at her side voice softly, his expression unreadable in the gloom of dusk.

‘Of course,’ she said dismissively. ‘Everyone conveniently forgets, six years later, that the two of them lived together, that the poor woman was so devastated by the rumours of his other women that she crashed her plane and killed herself rather than go through the humiliation of losing him to someone who could give him more than she could.’

‘You seem so certain that’s the way it happened?’

‘The newspapers were sure too at the time!’

‘The same newspapers you now think exaggerate everything about the man?’

She gave Rick a look of intense dislike, hating the way he twisted her words to confuse her. She knew how selfish Rod Bartlett was, she didn’t need the newspapers to tell her anything about him. ‘I have to go in and shower, Mr Richards,’ she told him distantly. ‘If you’ll excuse me.…’ His hand on her arm stopped her going into the cheery warmth of the hotel that had become her home on the death of her mother fifteen years ago, her aunt and uncle taking her into their family without a qualm, their daughter, her senior by six years, becoming the elder sister she never had.

‘Have dinner with me,’ he invited huskily.

Her eyes darkened with confusion. ‘I always eat with my aunt and uncle,’ she refused.

‘Couldn’t you make tonight the exception?’

She felt almost as if she were drowning in the sensuous warmth of liquid blue eyes, held mesmerised by him as he compelled her to accept. ‘I—I suppose I could,’ she heard herself say. ‘As long as you don’t intend to talk about Rod Bartlett all evening,’ she warned firmly.

He grinned, suddenly looking younger. ‘I promise you I won’t quote a single word you say about him.’

‘You do?’ she blinked, strangely believing him when she hadn’t trusted any of the other reporters who had pestered her.

‘I do,’ he nodded. ‘Now do you want to eat here at the hotel or do you know of any good restaurants nearby?’

Keilly’s eyes widened. ‘You’re staying here?’

‘Of course,’ he sounded mockingly scandalised. ‘You don’t think your aunt would give your whereabouts to just anyone, do you?’ He smiled, looking rakishly attractive, a little like the pirates must have done long ago, the beard and moustache suiting him.

She brought her thoughts up sharp as she caught herself wondering what it was like to kiss a man with a beard. She had agreed to have dinner with the man, nothing else. Although in the circumstances it might be better if they ate right here at the hotel.

‘Coward,’ Rick murmured after she told him her decision, bending so close his breath warmed her ear. ‘And I’ve been told on good authority that it doesn’t tickle at all,’ he murmured throatily.

She moved jerkily away from him, almost as if she had been burnt, looking up at him with wide eyes.

‘They’re very expressive,’ gentle fingertips moved across her lids, ‘I can almost read every thought you have.’

‘As long as it remains only almost,’ she said waspishly. ‘I’ll meet you in the dining room in an hour—er—Rick.’

‘I’ll be waiting, Keilly,’ he added softly, watching until she disappeared through a door behind the main desk marked ‘Private’.

Keilly felt his gaze on her the whole time, wondering if she hadn’t perhaps been a little impetuous in agreeing to have dinner with him; she had treated the other reporters with a bluntness that bordered on rudeness. It wasn’t even as if she knew anything about Rick, only his name, that he was staying at the hotel, and that he was interested in her dislike of Rod Bartlett. It was the latter part that bothered her. All reporters seemed to have an inborn natural curiosity, a need to probe until they unearthed what they were looking for. And if Rick Richards did that this time he would be hurting a lot of people. Damn the flash of temper that had given her the courage to write that scathing letter and so draw attention to herself and Selchurch!

She erased the dark frown from her brow as she went through to the kitchen to see her aunt, kissing her affectionately. ‘Dinner smells good,’ she greeted warmly, the aroma of food being cooked filling the room.

Her aunt smiled, small and plump, enjoying running the relatively big hotel in this small northern sea-side town, having built up a steady clientele the last twenty-five years. ‘Did Mr Richards manage to find you?’

Keilly’s gaze was suddenly evasive, not wanting to disclose that he was yet another reporter looking for a story. They had been plagued with them this last month, and she knew it worried her aunt. ‘Yes, he found me,’ she acknowledged lightly. ‘I’m going to have dinner with him, in fact,’ she added brightly.

‘Here?’

‘That’s right,’ she nodded. ‘I’m going to be a guest for a change,’ she teased.

Her Aunt Sylvie joined in her humour, although she still looked a little puzzled. ‘Is he a friend of yours? I don’t remember you ever mentioning him.’

For a brief moment she toyed with the idea of agreeing he was a friend, and then she dismissed the idea. She would need Rick Richards’ cooperation for such a ploy, and she had no reason to suppose he would give it. ‘He’s another reporter,’ she admitted with a sigh.

‘Oh dear,’ her aunt gave a rueful grimace. ‘And he seemed such a nice young man too.’

The thought of Rick ever being thought ‘a nice young man’ was amusing enough in itself, but the fact that her aunt thought his profession precluded him ever being such was hilarious. Keilly began to giggle, finally laughing outright.

‘What is it, dear?’ her aunt looked troubled.

She contained her humour with effort. ‘Being a reporter isn’t like having a contagious disease, Aunt Sylvie. The poor man can’t help his profession.’

Her aunt still looked disapproving. ‘One or two of them that came down here could have done with better manners,’ she reproved. ‘And some of the questions they asked your Uncle Bill and I,’ she looked scandalised. ‘I’m sure they expected you to have that actor’s baby at least!’

‘Aunt Sylvie!’ she gasped, not having realised just how personal the reporters had become with her family.

Her aunt shrugged. ‘That’s what several of them implied. I hope Mr Richards isn’t going to be as offensive,’ she frowned.

Keilly shook her head. ‘I’ve already told him I’ve never met Rod Bartlett. I’m sure he believed me.’ She picked up her beach bag. ‘I’d better go and wash the salt and sand off me.’

‘See you later, darling,’ her aunt returned to her cooking.

Keilly knew exactly what sort of scandalous story the reporters had expected to find here, but she hadn’t realised any of them had gone so far as to burden her aunt and uncle with such questions. She intended telling Rick Richards exactly enough to get him to leave Selchurch and no more. She had no more than that to tell him anyway.

He was waiting in the bar when she came downstairs an hour later, not noticing her at first as he chatted easily with her uncle as he stood behind the bar, Rick relaxing on one of the bar stools. The sheepskin jacket had gone now, a brown jacket and cream shirt in its place, showing her that she had been right about his shoulders and chest; he was powerfully muscled. The tailored trousers were the same cream colour as his partly unbuttoned shirt, their style and cut drawing provocative attention to the muscular leanness of his legs and thighs. He looked as if he too had showered during the last hour, the short neatly styled hair still damp.

Her uncle said something to make him laugh before moving off to serve some local people who had just come into the bar. Rick turned slightly away, his eyes widening as he saw Keilly standing in the doorway, warming to a deep blue as he took in her appearance, making her feel pleased that she had taken so much trouble with her hair and dress. She couldn’t ever remember feeling so warmed by a man’s open appreciation before.

Her hair was darkly gleaming now, blow-dried into its feathered windswept style to her shoulders, her make-up light and subtle, blue shading over dark grey eyes, her high cheekbones darkened by blusher, her lip-gloss of burnt orange. Her dress was knee-length, black shot through with silver weave, a black sash belt tied about her narrow waist, black high-heeled sandals adding to her elegance.

She could see her efforts had all been worth it as Rick stood up to slowly come towards her. ‘I hardly recognised you,’ he admitted huskily, standing only inches away now. ‘And I mean that in the nicest possible way.’

Keilly eyed him shyly, slightly unnerved by his own appearance. He was certainly nothing like the usual sort of man they had staying here, the hotel catering mainly for families. It was a long time since she had been in the company of such an attractive man, and now she felt rather awkward, wishing once again that she hadn’t agreed to have dinner with him.

He seemed to sense she was almost ready to take flight, lightly clasping her arm, his hand almost seeming to burn where it touched. ‘Shall we go through to the dining room?’

‘Your drink?’ her voice came out huskily.

He shrugged dismissal of it. ‘We can have some wine with our meal,’ he decided arrogantly.

Keilly allowed herself to be led into the intimacy of the small dining room they used during the winter months, smiling at the young waitress as she came to take their order, her smile fading slightly as she saw the appreciative look Brenda was giving Rick.

He looked at the small but extensive menu. ‘What do you recommend?’ he seemed completely unaware of the other girl’s interest in him.

It was a dangerous quality, the ability he had to make the woman he was with feel as if she were the only person important to him, and Keilly’s voice was unnaturally sharp because of it. ‘Everything,’ she told him abruptly. ‘My aunt does all the cooking, and she’s good.’

They both ordered the duck, Rick looking at the other empty tables. ‘Not very busy tonight,’ he remarked softly.

She shrugged. ‘It’s out of season, we’re never busy in October. In fact, you’re our only guest at the moment. Although we do serve meals to anyone who cares to come in.’ She looked pointedly at the empty room. ‘The people of Selchurch prefer to eat at home in the winter as a rule.’ She picked up the glass of vodka and lime he had ordered for her, sipping it slowly, looking anywhere but at the compelling man sitting across the table from her. ‘How long are you staying?’ she asked casually.

‘This time?’ He sat back in his chair, totally relaxed. ‘Just tonight. But I may come back,’ he added throatily, his dark gaze intent on the beauty of her face, forcing her to look at him with the insistence that she should.

He was flirting with her, she knew that, with his words but without actually touching her. He didn’t need to touch her, just the warmth of his gaze was like a caress. But he was only here for the one night, and despite what he said to the contrary she doubted he would ever come back here. With his cool sophistication he was more suited to London than this small northern town, and once he got back there he would forget all about Keilly Grant, the woman who had caused a minor stir because she dared to criticise Rod Bartlett, the darling of the film world.

She waited for their meal to be served before speaking again, her voice waspish as she saw the smile he bestowed on the already besotted Brenda. ‘Which newspaper do you work for?’

‘Which——? Oh I’m freelance,’ he replied easily. ‘I write an article and then try and sell it,’ he added by way of explanation.

‘Whatever takes the public’s interest,’ she derided.

‘Which at the moment is you,’ Rick drawled. ‘You’ve caused quite a sensation, little lady.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘Because I don’t happen to think Rod Bartlett is wonderful!’ her tone showed her contempt for such a thing being important.

Rick shook his head. ‘Because you came out and said it.’

‘Isn’t that allowed?’ she taunted.

‘Apparently not,’ he mused, sipping the wine that had been poured for them, consulting her on his choice, not one of those men who arrogantly assumed they knew the likes and dislikes of the person they were dining with and ordered for them. Keilly couldn’t stand such dominating men, and although Rick appeared to be forceful he certainly wasn’t inconsiderate. ‘Yours was the only letter of dissension they received at the magazine about the article. You should have seen the sacks of mail they received from people who wanted to lynch you from the nearest tree once your letter had been published,’ he derided.

‘All of them women,’ Keilly dismissed scornfully.

‘Actually, no,’ he refuted gently. ‘Rod Bartlett has quite a following among both sexes.’

‘Men wishing they were as macho as him,’ her mouth twisted with distaste.

Rick narrowed puzzled blue eyes. ‘He really did do something to upset you, didn’t he.’

She flushed. ‘Don’t tell me you think he’s wonderful too!’

He seemed to hestitate, an emotion that didn’t sit well on such a decisive man. ‘Have you seen “Beginning Again"?’ he named Rod Bartlett’s most recent film.

‘Certainly not,’ she snapped. ‘But you obviously have,’ she looked at him accusingly.

‘It’s a beautiful and sensitive film——’

‘Nothing about Rod Bartlett could possibly be beautiful or sensitive,’ she cut in heatedly, and then wished she hadn’t as he gave her yet another speculative look. She had to remember that no matter how charming and easy to talk to Rick was he was still a reporter, and reporters had been known to forget all ethics if they thought they were on the trail of a story. Rick had only promised not to quote her, not to refrain from writing the story altogether. ‘There’s no room for nakedness in a beautiful and sensitive film,’ she added uncomfortably.

‘How do you know that if you haven’t seen it?’

She flushed at his quiet rebuke, the food on her plate only half eaten as Brenda took them back to the kitchen, although Rick seemed to be experiencing no such loss of appetite, eating all of his food. ‘I thought you said we wouldn’t talk about Rod Bartlett all evening,’ she reminded waspishly.

‘And I don’t intend to,’ there was a dark promise in his steady gaze. ‘Not all evening. But I wondered what your reaction was to him coming back here?’

Keilly raised a stricken gaze to him, sure she couldn’t have heard him correctly. ‘I—Did you say he was coming to Selchurch?’ she swallowed hard.

‘It’s been rumoured that he is,’ Rick nodded. ‘I have a friend on the magazine you wrote to—Jeanie. I think you met her?’

She nodded, remembering the tall blonde woman who had arrived from the magazine to interview her. She wondered how much of a ‘friend’ the beautiful woman was to Rick, and then chastised herself for these ridiculous feelings of jealousy. After tonight she would never seen him again, and one casual dinner together certainly didn’t give her the right to be jealous of the other women in his life.

‘She’s the one who interviewed Bartlett for the article,’ Rick continued softly. ‘Apparently he mentioned that he’s taking a break soon. He hasn’t stopped working for the last five years, you know.’

‘I’m sure he hasn’t,’ Keilly derided. ‘But that hasn’t prevented him playing either.’

Rick shrugged. ‘A man needs relaxation of some kind——’

‘So does a woman,’ she bit out.

‘Then no one gets hurt, do they,’ he shrugged.

Keilly gave him a disbelieving look. ‘Is that what you really believe?’ she asked slowly.

‘Keilly——’

‘Do you?’ she insisted he answer, impatient with his reasoning tone.

He sighed, the blue eyes hard now. ‘If a man and woman want to sleep together, for whatever reason, mutual gratification, love, then surely that is their business and no one else’s?’

‘And if only one of them loves?’ Her eyes flashed deeply grey, neither of them making any effort to eat the dessert that had been placed in front of them minutes earlier.

His mouth firmed impatiently. ‘Keilly——’

She moved her hand from the table down on to her knee as he would have grasped it. ‘You were telling me about Rod Bartlett coming back here,’ she prompted stiffly.

Rick shrugged dismissal of the subject, looking at her exasperatedly. ‘He mentioned to Jeanie that he was thinking about it.’ ‘When?’

‘He was only thinking about it, Keilly,’ he sighed.

‘He’ll probably decide to go to the Bahamas instead,’ she scorned.

Rick shook his head. ‘He isn’t that keen on hot weather,’ his mouth twisted at the wind that could now be heard blowing in strongly from the sea. ‘This would suit him a lot better.’

‘He won’t find any bikini-clad beauties down here!’

He smiled. ‘He’ll find one,’ he teased. ‘And very beautiful she is too.’

Keilly blushed at this blatant flirtation, although her thoughts were far from the man seated opposite her. It would be disastrous for the actor to come to Selchurch! Perhaps it had just been a whim, one he had instantly dismissed? After all, he hadn’t been back for twelve years, so why should he decide to come back now? It had probably just been talk, people like him were always trying to convince the public that they hadn’t forgotten their ‘roots’. Nevertheless, her unease about the idea persisted. If he should come back—-

‘Why do I get the feeling I’m rather superfluous?’ Rick drawled self-derisively.

He looked quite put out by the fact that she kept fading off into her thoughts and ignoring him. And she could understand why. He was too attractive, too attentive a companion himself to usually be treated in this off-hand manner.

She gave a light laugh, forgetting the actor for the moment, forgetting the chaos he could cause if he did decide to come back here even if only for a visit, concentrating on the man she was with, intent on enjoying what little time she had left with him. He would be gone in the morning and she would never see him again. ‘You aren’t superfluous at all,’ she told him throatily, looking at him beneath lowered lashes. ‘Not as far as I’m concerned anyway.’ She sat back as the waitress removed their used dishes. ‘Or Brenda either,’ she added as the other girl gave him yet another yearning look. ‘We don’t get many attractive men staying here and——’ she broke off as she realised what she had said, then cursed herself for blushing like a schoolgirl.

Rick’s eyes brimmed with laughter. ‘Please go on,’ he drawled softly. ‘You had got as far as “attractive man”…’

‘Men,’ she corrected, sighing as she couldn’t contain her own humour any longer, meeting the smile in his eyes. ‘You haven’t reached thirty, thirty-two——’

‘Thirty-one,’ he supplied.

‘Well you haven’t reached that age without being aware of your own attraction,’ she dismissed. ‘Or how women react to it.’ She was amazed at herself; she didn’t usually indulge in such openly flirtatious conversations with virtual strangers, in fact she didn’t have conversations like this at all normally. Rick seemed to dispense with all inhibitions, demanding and receiving honesty.

He leant forward now, taking one of her hands as she plucked nervously at the tablecloth, his thumb moving erotically against her palm. ‘How do you react to it?’

She felt uncomfortable under his probing gaze, her hand tingling where he touched her, sending messages of pleasure up through her body. ‘The same way Brenda does,’ she admitted huskily. ‘I just hide it better,’ she added dryly.

Rick continued to look at her for long timeless minutes. ‘Come for a walk with me,’ he requested suddenly.

She gave him a startled glance. ‘It sounds as if its blowing a gale out there.’ The wind could clearly be heard howling around the building, seeming to grow stronger by the minute.

‘It’s untamed, like you,’ he told her intently, standing up, her hand still held firmly in his as he pulled her towards him. ‘When I saw you on the beach tonight I could see you belonged here——’

‘I was born here——’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Rick dismissed shortly. ‘You belong here, in this environment, with the sea and the wind as your friends.’ His hand came up to frame her face as he held her gaze up to his. ‘Your eyes remind me of the sea on a day like this,’ he murmured softly, seeming to devour her as he sought to commit the mental image of her to memory. ‘They’re deep and dark, deep enough for a man to lose his soul in.’

‘Rick——’ She broke apart from him as the kitchen door swung open behind them, Brenda coming to a self-conscious halt as she saw them standing so closely together. Keilly blushed a dark red, knowing it would be all over the town tomorrow that she had been seen kissing one of the guests in the dining room. The fact that she and Rick hadn’t actually been kissing each other was irrelevent, all three of them knew that if Brenda had come in a few seconds later they would have been. ‘We’ve finished now, thank you, Brenda,’ her voice was sharp before she turned to leave the room knowing, but not seeing, that Rick was at her side as she did so.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly after several silent seconds.

She came to a halt in the reception area, turning to look at him. ‘For what?’

He shrugged. ‘The dining room of your aunt and uncle’s hotel isn’t the place for me to attempt to seduce you,’ he derided. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’

‘You didn’t,’ she returned abruptly. ‘Thank you for dinner, Mr Richards,’ she held out her hand politely. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay here with us.’

He looked down at the hand she held out to him, ignoring the fact that she expected him to shake it, taking it firmly in his left hand to pull her against his side. ‘I believe I suggested we go for a walk,’ he reminded throatily.

‘It’s cold and windy——’

‘You love it like this,’ he dismissed. ‘In fact, I bet you revel in it. I can just picture you now, walking along the beach on starlit nights, defying the elements, the sea.’

Keilly stared up at him in surprised wonder. No one else had ever realised the challenge she found in a night like this, the battle she had with the sea each time she swam in the winter evenings. The rest of the family and her friends just thought she was a ‘health nut’, none of them had ever realised how she really felt about it. Rick had only known her a couple of hours, and yet he had guessed, he knew.

‘I’ll go and get my coat,’ she told him quietly.

He nodded, pleasure flaring in his eyes to make them appear sapphire blue. ‘And I’ll get mine.’

He was waiting outside for her when she came through from collecting her thick woollen coat, pulling the tie-belt tightly about her waist as she looked up and met his gaze. During their few minutes apart she hadn’t liked to allow herself the time to think, hadn’t wanted to, for once just wanted to enjoy the moment, of being with someone who knew her so totally. He held out his arms to her now and she didn’t hesitate about moving into them, her head bent back as she raised her mouth for his kiss, receiving no gentle exploration to her trusting gesture, swept away on a tide of passion so strong it equalled the force of the wind that whipped her hair about their faces, touching the hardness of Rick’s cheeks as if in a caress.

They didn’t speak as they drew apart, turning as if by tacit agreement to walk towards the cove, Keilly snuggled against the warmth of his coat as his arm remained possessively about her shoulders.

She felt warmed, protected, braving a glance at the enigmatic man who made her feel that way. He walked strong and proud, his head into the wind, as if he too enjoyed challenging the elements—although unlike her, he seemed confident he could win!

‘You’re right,’ she broke the silence between them as they stood at the top of the cliff looking down, the white surf of the wind-tossed sea crashing against the sand. ‘It doesn’t tickle,’ she added almost shyly, his facial hair feeling softer than she had imagined, not rough at all.

Rick smiled at her with complete accord, moving off again, taking her down the moonlit pathway to the beach below. It wasn’t windy against the cliffs in the shelter of the cove, a strange stillness all around them.

Once again Keilly felt compelled to raise her face to him, her lips parted to the sensual assault of his, her arms clasped about his neck as she stood on tiptoe, held fast against him by the strong arms he wrapped so possessively about her slender body.

She felt herself lowered lightly to stand on the ground as his mouth travelled across her cheek to her throat, her arms against his shirt beneath his jacket, her head thrown back as he released the top two buttons to her dress, exposing the curve of her breasts beneath the black lacy bra, his lips moving across their exposed fullness before capturing hers once again.

This time he kissed her deeply, intimately, the smoothness of his tongue entering her mouth to run lightly along the edge of her inner lips, plunging deeper as she groaned her surrender, the tautness of his thighs so hard against hers heady to her already aroused senses.

‘We can’t make love here!’ he groaned as he bit into her earlobe, tracing the gentle curve with his tongue.

‘No,’ she agreed, his chest bared to her questing hands and lips.

‘The sand is probably as damp as hell,’ he muttered between fevered kisses on her bared shoulders.

‘Yes,’ she said again, gasping slightly as he bit into her tender flesh, hearing his groan of satisfaction seconds later as her tongue sought and found the male nipple, feeling it harden beneath her caresses.

With the minimum of movement he had thrown off his sheepskin jacket and was lowering her down on to it, smoothing aside the unbuttoned front of her dress, releasing the fastening of her bra to bare her breasts to his avid gaze.

The sky could have fallen in on them at that moment and neither of them would have cared, Keilly arching up as his mouth claimed moist possession of one rosy-tipped breast, teeth closing about the nipple to bite down gently as ecstasy flooded her lower limbs, a slow warmth invading her thighs, the pleasure ten-fold as his hand claimed the other breast, his thumb moving roughly across the tip.

Both were oblivious to the storm rolling in off the sea, lost in a tempest of their own making, moist lips claiming other welcoming lips, hands avidly searching the pleasure spots of their bodies.

Rick’s hand was on her knee now, travelling slowly up her thigh, closing possessively over the delicious mound that lay beneath black lacy panties, the warmth increasing in Keilly as he slowly caressed her there, his hand moving surely beneath the lace to the waiting flesh below.

The storm of their making may have been strong, but the storm above them wasn’t to be denied any longer, huge drops of rain falling coldly on their heated flesh, Rick’s shirt soaked and clinging to his back within seconds as he lay across her. Even so he was loath to relinquish her mouth, leaving her with a frustrated groan, quickly buttoning her dress for her before pulling her coat warmly about her.

‘Your coat——’

‘I’ll see to that in a minute,’ he dismissed, his hair looking as black as her own now that it was wet. ‘Keilly,’ his hands framed her face, seemingly oblivious to the rain that was fast drenching them both. ‘No matter how much I wanted you just now I wouldn’t have taken you here,’ his gaze held hers steadily. ‘Making love on a beach, fumbling about in the dark as if we’re guilty of something, it isn’t how I want our first time together to be.’ His head bent and he kissed her slowly, lingeringly. ‘I’m going to give you champagne and roses when I make love to you. And a bed,’ he added meaningly.

She was warmed by the sincerity of his words, knew that the rain, the frantic haste to straighten their clothes, had dampened things in more ways than one. Rick taking the time—and getting waterlogged into the bargain!—to reassure her of his feelings made everything seem good again.

‘A bed can be made of many things, Rick,’ she sat up to assist him with his coat, although it was much too late to prevent him being soaked to the skin. ‘Down or sand, the important thing is who you share it with.’

He smiled, his eyes a deep warm blue. ‘My untamed witch!’ He bent to kiss her with lingering tenderness, his gaze intent for long breathless seconds before he quickly stood up, pulling her lightly to her feet. ‘Are there any caves along here where we can wait until the rain stops?’ He narrowed his eyes along the cliff face.

‘No caves,’ she took his hand and began to run. ‘But there’s an overhanging rock where we can take shelter.’

They reached the rock within minutes, huddling close together to avoid the worst of the rain.

As they stood there waiting for the onslaught to ease, reaction began to set in for Keilly. It was inevitable that it should, in all of her twenty-two years she could never remember behaving this wantonly before, and with a virtual stranger. She had been out with quite a few men, and several of them would have liked the relationship to progress further than the goodnight kisses she allowed them, but always in the past she had held out, knowing that most of them were just out for another conquest, someone they could tell their friends about afterwards.

But Rick was much older than any of the other men she had dated, was surely past the stage in his life where he needed to boast about physical conquests in order to feel good. And she believed him when he said he hadn’t intended making love to her on the beach, knew that no matter how aroused he had been he had also been completely in control, that he had had no intention of making their lovemaking into something childish and illicit.

‘I won’t come to your room tonight,’ she murmured against the dampness of his coat. ‘I know that.’

‘And you aren’t coming to mine either!’

‘No. Keilly,’ he raised her face gently with his hand. ‘I told you, I’m coming back, And I meant it.’

Happiness glowed in the darkness of her eyes. ‘When?’

‘I’m not sure yet—I will be back, Keilly,’ he insisted as disappointment clouded her face. ‘Now that I’ve found you I’ll let no other man tame you but me!’ His arms tightened painfully. ‘All that wildness and fire is going to be for me,’ he ground out fiercely.

She didn’t know if she were relieved or disappointed when it at last stopped raining ten minutes later, relieved because they could at last go and get out of these wet clothes, disappointed because she didn’t want this time with Rick to end.

He seemed to share her reluctance, for all that they were both wet and cold their walk back to the hotel was slow, their arms wrapped about each other hindering their speed even more. And neither of them minded in the least, stopping outside the hotel to kiss once more.

‘I was going to organise a search-party,’ her uncle Bill sighed his relief as they entered the hotel, a small wiry man with sandy-grey hair and twinkling blue eyes. ‘You had better go upstairs and shower, Keilly, before you catch pneumonia.’

‘She doesn’t even catch cold,’ Rick murmured, his gaze still locked on her flushed cheeks.

‘That’s true,’ her uncle nodded. ‘By the way, there was a telephone call for you while you were out, Mr Richards.’

Keilly felt the way Rick suddenly stiffened with tension, looking up at him enquiringly.

‘For me?’ he frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

Her uncle smiled. ‘Well you are our only guest, and the lady was quite clear about the name. She left a message for you here somewhere,’ he looked through the papers on the desk. ‘"Call Barbie”,’ he read. ‘Urgent, she said it was,’ he frowned.

‘Thanks,’ Rick nodded abstractedly. ‘I’ll call her as soon as I’ve changed.’

Keily could still sense his tension as he held on tightly to her hand. ‘Anything wrong, Rick?’ she prompted softly.

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘Barbie—sometimes finds work for me,’ he explained abruptly. ‘We had both better do as your uncle suggested and take a shower.’

‘Separately, I hope,’ her Uncle Bill put in dryly.

Keilly’s indignant gasp was drowned out by the men’s shared laughter, and with a fierce glare at both of them she walked off to take her shower—alone! Really, she couldn’t imagine what had come over her uncle for him to make such a personal remark.

One look in the mirror once she reached her bedroom on the top floor showed her exactly why he had done it. Despite the wet slickness of her hair, slightly smudged make-up, and limp clothing, it was possible to see she had been thoroughly kissed, and by an expert too if the glow in her eyes was anything to go by.

‘Keilly?’ A knock sounded on the door to accompany the soft calling of her name. ‘Keilly, I have to talk to you.’

Rick! ‘I meant what I said earlier,’ she spoke to him through the thickness of the door.

‘I know, darling,’ he sounded amused. ‘But I have to return to London tonight, and I——’

‘Tonight?’ she had the door open before he could even finish what he was saying. ‘Tonight, Rick?’ she groaned her, disappointment, uncaring that she was revealing too much of her feelings; she had thought they had until tomorrow morning at least.

He was still as wet as she was, although his shorter hair was drying quicker than hers. ‘I decided to call Barbie right away, and—I have a job to do back in London,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll be leaving as soon as I’ve changed and packed.’

She couldn’t even manage a smile. ‘Barbie is—just a friend?’

He smiled gently, pulling her into his arms. ‘Just a friend—my little witch.’ He sobered suddenly. ‘I don’t want to go now, but I have to. You do believe I’ll come back?’

At the moment she wanted to believe anything he told her, nodding before she found her mouth claimed by his, kissing him back as if she never wanted him to stop.

They were both breathing hard by the time they pulled apart, Rick resting his forehead momentarily on hers before moving away from her completely. ‘I’d better go—or I won’t want to,’ he added ruefully. ‘I’ll call you, okay?’ He touched her cheek with gentle fingertips.

She swallowed hard. ‘Okay.’

With one last rakish grin he was gone, leaving Keilly wondering if she had imagined it all, if Rick Richards had just been a wonderful dream. But the tingle all over her body told her he couldn’t have been, and when she undressed the slight redness to her breasts where his beard had scraped her more tender skin more than convinced her that he had been real.

But would he really come back or had she just been an interlude to him? Worse still, would she find a story about herself emblazoned across some newspaper in the next few days, Rick Richards’ personal—very personal, interview with the woman who had scorned at Rod Bartlett?

Oh God, Rod Bartlett! She had forgotten about him the last couple of hours. There was a possibility—even if only a very remote one—that Rod Bartlett could come back here. How was Kathy going to react to that?

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