fingers itched to portray them that way. It had, however, gained her recognition, and once that reputation was well established she would be able to draw what she pleased and sell it—landscapes and particularly children, whom she loved to draw, although not necessarily as their parents wanted them portrayed.
As she organized herself as best she could, she practised a familiar technique. She breathed deeply and cleared her mind—and she called up her captor.
As always, some emotions came with the image she was seeing in her mind’s eye, her reaction to her subject, but what caused her to blink in surprise was the veritable kaleidoscope of emotions that came along with Gavin Hastings’s dark, good-looking face.
She discovered that her fingers longed to score and slash lines and angles onto the paper with her crayons in a caricature of the devil with very blue eyes.
Jo, Jo, she chided herself, if he’s to be believed, he’s been subject to a kidnap attempt so he’s bound to be antsy!
Doesn’t matter, she retorted. I don’t like him, but I especially don’t like the way I do like some things about this man I don’t like. And I resent wondering, actually wondering, what he thinks of me!
She stared down at the still-pristine piece of paper beneath her fingers and was horrified to find herself breathing raggedly. This isn’t going to work, she thought. There’s only one way I can draw Gavin Hastings with any peace of mind and that’s asleep.
She had no idea how much later it was when she heard the bolt being withdrawn on the other side of the door, but some instinct made her throw her anorak over all the evidence of her endeavours.
He came in looking as mean and nasty as any demented bushranger, daubed with mud and soaking wet.
Her eyes widened, then she looked at her watch and realized he’d been away for over an hour. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Concerned for me, maybe even missed me?’ he queried sardonically. ‘No, I’m not all right. Put some water on to boil.’
Jo opened her mouth to take issue with his manner, then changed her mind, and he started to peel off his clothes.
‘Uh—what happened to the umbrella and the poncho?’ she ventured.
‘They were about as useless as a pocket handkerchief so I threw them away.’
Joanne listened to the rain pounding on the roof for a moment. ‘Yes, well, they weren’t designed for this kind of downpour.’ She refilled the coffee-pot and set it on the stove. ‘Did you—achieve anything?’ She turned to look at him, but turned away abruptly—he was down to his underpants and socks. Then she took hold and told herself not to be spinsterish. ‘Here.’
She took a blanket off the bed and handed it over.
He didn’t thank her as he draped it around him. Instead, as their gazes met his was full of such chilling scorn that she flinched.
She had to say, ‘Look, none of this is my fault. It’s no good being angry with me. If anything, it’s counterproductive.’
‘Really.’ He sat down at the table. ‘Have you been able to come up with anything productive while you’ve been twiddling your thumbs?’ he asked unpleasantly.
She set her teeth.
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing,’ he said. ‘Skulking around my own property, stealing my own fuel, which I then had to carry like a packhorse, while you’ve been—’ his gaze strayed to a corner of the pencil box protruding from beneath her anorak and he swept the jacket aside ‘—I don’t believe this—painting!’
‘It’s not painting. I don’t use paints. I use oil crayons.’
‘Nevertheless—’ He stopped and studied his portrait, but what he thought of it she was destined not to know because, although he blinked once, he then looked up at her with palpable menace. ‘Do you honestly think this proves anything?’
‘I…’ She bit her lip. ‘I was hoping it would.’
‘Then you thought wrong, lady. So—’ he relaxed somewhat, but the attack didn’t relax at all as he studied the portrait again ‘—you looked your fill while I was asleep, Jo?’
Some colour came to her cheeks. ‘It’s a habit I have. Bones, lines, angles, muscles are my stock-in-trade.’
‘What about cuddling up to strange men?’
The hiss of droplets turning to steam on the stove top told her the water had boiled, but she ignored it. ‘I must have been asleep. I certainly don’t remember doing it. I must have been cold—that’s all there is to it.’
He watched her set mouth and returned her level grey gaze for a moment, then shrugged. ‘It was very pleasant, as it happens. Would you be so kind as to clear the table, Miss Lucas, and would you lend me your pink razor?’
Jo parted her lips, but then closed them.
‘You’re right,’ he said as if she’d spoken, ‘I need a shave. It might even put me in a better frame of mind. You wouldn’t happen to have a mirror?’
She had more. She had a small cake of soap, a clean, slightly damp towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste, but the mirror was tiny.
He used it all the same, squinting at it humorously for any patches of bristle he’d missed. Then he cleaned his teeth with heartfelt relief.
‘I like a lady with a good, sharp razor,’ he commented at one stage. ‘New?’ He held it up to the light.
‘It was new,’ Jo agreed dryly.
He laughed. ‘Might not be good for much after ploughing through that beard, but if we ever get out of here, Jo, I’ll buy you another one. Ouch.’ He fingered his jaw. ‘You wouldn’t have any aftershave lotion, by any chance?’
‘If that’s designed to make me feel less than feminine,’ she said pointedly, ‘it’s like water off a duck’s back. No, I don’t, but you could try this.’ She handed him a bottle out of her toilet bag.
He turned it over in his hands and read the label. ‘Witch hazel? What’s that?’
‘A very good, natural astringent that should make your skin feel all tingly and fresh.’
‘Ah.’ He poured some into his palms and slapped it on his face. ‘You’re right! A woman of great resource. Incidentally—’ he screwed the cap on the bottle ‘—I thought I’d dispelled that less-than-feminine tag?’
During his ministrations, he’d shoved the blanket down to his waist and she had picked up his wet clothes and hung them on the other chair in front of the fire.
‘I don’t give a damn about what you think of me in that regard,’ she replied, but the truth was the sleek muscles of his shoulders, the springy dark hair on his chest, his tapering, rock-hard torso were all hard to ignore for two reasons. The funny little sensation they brought to the pit of her stomach and a very real desire to capture such male perfection on paper.
There was a little silence. Then he said ironically, ‘You’re a hard nut to crack, Josie.’
She shrugged and busied herself with making breakfast—this time tinned stew and biscuits. But her fingers stilled as she remembered what he’d said earlier, and she turned to him suddenly. ‘Fuel?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I wondered when that would sink in,’ he murmured.
‘So you got some? How? Did you get up to the house?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s a machinery shed not that far away.’
She turned back to the stew. ‘So we’re…we can…go?’
‘No. There’s a creek up and running between us and the gate we wouldn’t get through even in a four-wheel drive at the moment.’