Untamed. Кэрол Мортимер

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.