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The man behind the mask…
Sophie Nash always knew that trespassing on elusive celebrity Chay Buchanan’s Mediterranean island hideaway would be risky—and that’s before she’s caught red-handed, risking her life to take a photo of him! Even more worrying is her instant attraction to the gorgeous man in front of her…
Chay values privacy above all else, so when an accident requires that the delightfully bubbly Sophie must share his island sanctuary a little longer, he’s totally thrown. And that’s before he kisses her…!
“Please let me go, Chay.”
Sophie whispered the plea, her eyes huge.
“Don’t do that!” Chay lifted his hand to her heated cheek, to graze it with his thumb. “Or I’ll have to kiss you again...until you beg me to let you stay.”
“You’ve got a great notion of your physical attraction,” she declared roundly.
“Have I? Are you confident enough of your willpower to put it to the test?”
LIZ FIELDING was born in Berkshire, England, and educated at a convent school in Maidenhead. At twenty she took off for Africa to work as a secretary in Lusaka, where she met her civil engineer husband, John. They spent the following ten years working in Africa and the Middle East. She began writing during the long evenings when her husband was working away on contract. Liz and her husband are now settled in Wales with their children, Amy and William.
Prisoner of the Heart
Liz Fielding
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
‘GOT you, Chay Buchanan!’ Sophie Nash’s triumphant exclamation was a tightly contained whisper. Perched on a rocky ledge fifty feet above a rock-strewn bay, she had waited too long–all an apparently endless afternoon, while the sun had crept around the headland, stealing her shade, beating into the exposed crevice with barely enough room to ease her aching back or flex her legs–to risk giving herself away now.
And she had almost given up. The sun was sinking fast, taking with it the precious light. Another ten minutes, she had promised herself, and she would end the torture and climb the fifteen or so feet back up to the top of the cliff. She had pressed herself a little closer to the comfort of the rock-face. The ledge had seemed larger viewed from the safety of the cliff-top and she had been so certain that she would be able to see the wide expanse of terrace between the tower and the sea. But she had been wrong. Only the tantalising glimpse of the pool had kept her riveted to her eyrie, praying that the sudden rise in temperature would tempt her quarry out for a swim. And finally it had.
The man fixed in her sights was staring out to sea, his hand raised against the westering sun. She released the shutter and the motor-wind drove the film forward as the wind whipped up a dark lock of hair and feathered it across his forehead. He was relaxed now, at ease in the safety of his keep. All that would change if he discovered that he was being observed. She shivered involuntarily, despite the heat. He had made himself more than clear. Warned her to stay away. Warned her that if she was ever unfortunate enough to be found anywhere near the old watch-tower that was his home with a camera in her possession she would discover that the dungeon was still a working feature.
Sophie shrugged away the disquieting thought of being locked inside the dark recesses of his tower. He had been simply melodramatic, trying to scare her off. Well, he would find out that she didn’t scare off that easily. His dungeon was undoubtedly nothing more threatening than a wine cellar these days. Besides, she wasn’t trespassing. There wasn’t a thing he could do to her. Oh, no? The thought was in her head before she could stop it. No! His property began on the other side of the great overhanging rock that so effectively protected his privacy. All but the pool at the sea’s edge. And he would never know she had been there until the photographs appeared alongside Nigel’s feature in Celebrity.
She twisted the zoom lens, closing in on the tanned profile and a pair of well-made shoulders, naked but for the towel thrown about them. The skin of his back gleamed like bronze silk in the early evening sun, smooth, packed with muscle, like an ancient statue of an athlete she had seen once in a museum. Her mouth dried as she panned the lense downwards, but the briefest black swimsuit clung to his hips, and the smallest gasp of something that might have been relief escaped her lips.
She quickly swung the long lens back up to his face, almost jumping as she adjusted the focus and he suddenly appeared close enough to touch. That first sense of triumph evaporated as she acknowledged that her response to such compelling masculinity, even at this distance, was as immediate and disturbing as on their first encounter. She felt a hot, remembering flush of shame at the way his knowing eyes had declined the imagined invitation.
He wasn’t even handsome, Sophie thought furiously. Chay Buchanan possessed no feature that might lay claim to such an adjective. His face was rugged, lived-in. No, slept-in. She shifted, uncomfortable with the memory of the naive way she had knocked at the door of his fortress to ask if he would let her take a photograph of him. She should have known that it couldn’t possibly be that simple or Nigel would