‘Personally or professionally?’
Sarah hesitated. She’d been telling herself that her interest in Luke was professional, but in the instant she opened her mouth to tell Kitty so she knew it wasn’t the whole story. ‘Probably both.’
‘At least you’re honest. He sounds worth the effort—although your description could fit a dozen dark-haired hunks on the Gold Coast.’
‘All called Luke?’
‘If it’s his real name.’
Sarah pressed her fingers to her temples. Her head ached, thanks to the accident, making it hard to think clearly. Then she remembered something more. ‘His hair is unusual,’ she said, without opening her eyes. ‘He has a streak of silver at each temple.’
When she opened her eyes, Kitty was grinning. ‘Silver streaks, huh? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ She dived for her voluminous photo catalogues, shuffling through files until she located a brown envelope. With a flourish, she pulled out a glossy photo of a man in sleek black and gold racing leathers. ‘Is this him?’
Sarah’s heart missed a beat as she took the photo from Kitty. The midnight eyes seemed to lock with hers as she studied the craggy face above the leather outfit. It was Luke.
He cradled a full-face helmet in one arm and stood, with legs braced wide apart, alongside something that looked more like a silver bullet than a car. The power and purpose she’d sensed emanating from him suddenly clicked into place. Her throat dried. ‘Yes, it’s him.’
‘I knew it. As soon as you mentioned the silver streaks. They are . . . were . . . his trademark. He’s Luke Ansfield and those same streaks earned him the nickname “Lightning”. He used to be the top Formula One racing driver—five times world champion, if I recall correctly.’
Sarah resisted the urge to hold the photo close against herself, hardly daring to examine her motives. The man had saved her life. She shouldn’t read more into this than there was. All the same she heard herself ask Kitty, ‘Can I keep this for a while?’
Kitty nodded. ‘What are friends for? When you return it, make sure you put his phone number on the back.’
Something sharp stabbed Sarah, yet she had no claim on Luke Ansfield. She had no reason to react so strongly to Kitty’s suggestion. She made herself laugh. ‘What happened to Jeff, the one who jumps out of helicopters?’
‘He only did it once, to get an award-winning aerial photo. In any case, I’m involved with Kevin now. He’s a cinematographer at the film studios.’
This time Sarah’s laugh was genuine. ‘Ian, then Jeff and now Kevin. Still working your way through the alphabet?’
Kitty grinned. ‘Maybe. And you know what comes after K? L—as in Luke.’
‘Remember what you told me. He may not even live on the coast.’
‘Neither did Jeff or Kevin. It doesn’t have to be a handicap—especially at the speed a man like Luke moves.’
Surprise jolted through Sarah, but Kitty was referring to Luke’s racing career, not to what had happened on the highway earlier. Still, the comment had hit so close to home that Sarah shuddered.
‘He used to have a pretty wild reputation,’ Kitty went on. ‘He’s supposed to have settled down after he got into some trouble in Europe—enough to make him give up racing, since he came back to Australia four years ago. So it might pay you to be a bit cautious.’
Kitty meant well, Sarah knew. But she sensed that nothing Luke could have done could be so terrible. But it had made him give up a sport he loved. She chewed her lower lip. ‘How do you know so much?’ she asked Kitty.
‘Gavin, who came before Hedley, was a pit-man on the Grand Prix circuit. When we were together I spent some time trackside. How do you think I got that shot of Luke?’
Sarah nodded. ‘I’m glad you did.’
‘What will you do now? Use your journalistic skills to track your hero down?’
‘You never know.’ Sarah looked at her watch and started. ‘But not right now. I was due in make-up half an hour ago.’ Throwing her thanks over her shoulder, she flew out of the building and hailed a taxi to take her to the studio.
Donna Blake, the producer of Coast to Coast, was tearing her hair out. ‘Didn’t the guys tell you about the accident?’ Sarah asked, allaying the woman’s censure.
Immediately the producer looked concerned. ‘You went to a doctor?’
Sarah squirmed uncomfortably. ‘Not exactly. But the delay did involve the accident.’ It was the truth, Sarah told herself.
The producer looked severe. ‘Sarah, the contest for the job of permanent anchor on this show is down to you and Richard Nero. Unless you buckle down and work like mad, you’re practically handing him the job.’
Sarah was only too aware of it. ‘Sometimes I feel like making him a present of it,’ she retorted. But it wasn’t entirely true. The anchor job on Coast to Coast would be the culmination of years of commitment and hard work on her part.
Starting as a newspaper journalist, she’d progressed to on-air reporter, occasionally filling in as anchor when the show’s regular front-person, Angela Fordham, was on holidays.
Angela had been head-hunted by a national network six months before. Since then, the anchor job had been shared between Sarah and Richard Nero. The two of them spent alternate weeks in the job while management and the ratings made the decision.
So far Sarah felt she was ahead on points, but it was no reason to be complacent. Office gossip had it that management favoured a male presenter, although they couldn’t admit to any such thing, and Richard’s main strength lay in his ability to play corporate politics, which Sarah hated.
Somehow she managed to get through the show, reading the solar energy story from the autocue over the film they’d taken that morning at the Hinterland community.
The final story was almost her undoing. One of the roving reporters threw to a late story and suddenly Sarah’s monitor showed the film Rick had taken at the scene of the accident.
It was a shock to see film of herself lying on the ground, intercut with shots of the mangled car, and also to see Luke’s powerfully male form bending over her, his lips pressed to hers in the so-called ‘kiss of life. Her heart sank. So much for Luke’s belief that the studio wouldn’t screen such a traumatic moment. He had reckoned without the news value of his ‘patient’.
Her face was white beneath the studio make-up by the time they cut back to her for her closing remarks. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall what she said, although it must have been acceptable because nobody commented once the on-air light went out and everyone relaxed.
The producer came up to her. ‘You looked pale when we did the accident story. Brought it all back, huh?’
It had, but not for the reason Donna suspected. ‘Yes, it did,’ she admitted, disturbed to hear how shaky she sounded.
‘Just as well Richard’s in the chair tomorrow,’ the producer commented. ‘Go home and get some rest. You look like you need it.’
She went home, but she was much too keyed-up to rest. She had vowed not to look at the videotape of the show she automatically recorded every day. But, as if in a dream, she found herself replaying the accident segment, freezing the tape when the camera lens closed on Luke’s broad back. His face wasn’t visible, as he’d ensured, but she felt a sudden strange longing to reach out a hand and run it across those corded muscles.
She already knew how it felt to be kissed by him. What would it be like if there was genuine passion in the kiss?
Hold it, she told herself, drawing a deep breath. What did she know about the man—other than his name and occupation, and Kitty’s suggestion that there had been some