Untamed. Кэрол Мортимер

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,’