His Personal Agenda

“Kiss me, Matt Crosby,” she said

With a soft moan he reached out and slid his fingers through her hair. Matt knew he should back off and resist her. This was breaking all the rules. But it was too late. He’d been drawn by something almost desperate in Nyssa’s eyes, a vulnerability, a hunger that spoke directly to him.

Besides, the rules no longer mattered. Tomorrow Matt would return the developer’s money, and tell him to find someone else to do his dirty work.

Then he put thinking on hold and started acting. He pulled her close and teased her lips, swallowing her scent so that it became part of him forever.

She shivered with pleasure. “This is crazy!”

“Madness…” he whispered.

Born and raised in Berkshire, LIZ FIELDING started writing at the age of twelve when she won a hymn-writing competition at her convent school. After a gap of more years than she is prepared to admit to, during which she worked as a secretary in Africa and the Middle East, got married and had two children, she was finally able to realize her ambition and turn to full-time writing in 1992.

She now lives with her husband, John, in west Wales, surrounded by mystical countryside and romantic, crumbling castles, content to leave the traveling to her grown-up children and keeping in touch with the rest of the world via the Internet. Readers can visit Liz Fielding’s Web site at www.lizfielding.com.

His Personal Agenda. Liz Fielding

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

MATT CROSBY considered the man sitting behind the vast mahogany desk with a certain detachment. Charles Parker was not an easy man to warm to, but he would pay well and Matt had a lot of expenses.

‘I don’t have to explain the problem to you, Crosby,’ he said, sliding a file across the polished acres of mahogany. ‘This woman is a troublemaker. She’s holding up an important development, something badly needed, and she’s got to be stopped.’

Matt wasn’t taken in by protestations of concern for the public interest. Charles Parker’s only concern was for profit. But he picked up the file and contemplated the photograph of a young woman clipped to the inside cover.

Nyssa Blake. The face that launched a thousand town planning appeals.

She headed the wish list of every property developer in Britain. And they all wished the same thing. That she would go away.

According to the brief biography attached she was a few months shy of her twenty-third birthday, but she was already capable of making Charles Parker reach for the panic button. With good reason. Her track record for forcing developers to ‘think again’ was impressive.

‘She can’t be allowed to get away with it,’ Parker insisted impatiently.

‘No, I suppose not.’ After all, if she wasn’t stopped soon she might get the crazy idea that she could do anything. Matt had been twenty-two himself once, and just about remembered having ideals and a burning desire to put the world to rights, remembered that youthful sense of invincibility that didn’t know when it was beaten. He’d learned the hard way.

Parker glanced at him sharply. ‘There’s no suppose about it.’ Then, ‘That file contains just about everything that anyone has ever written about her, and my secretary will give you video tapes…news coverage of her last campaign—’

‘An out-of-town shopping park, wasn’t it?’

Parker shuddered. ‘She brought in a botanist who was supposed to have found some rare species no one had ever heard of and cared even less about.’

‘Out-of-town shopping has become very un-PC. The local authority was probably glad of any excuse to stop it.’ Parker glared at him and Matt shrugged. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Don’t tempt me.’ Parker laughed shortly. He was seriously rattled, seriously worried, Matt decided. Well, he’d heard rumours that Parker was having cash-flow problems. Any delay would hurt him badly. ‘What I’d really like is for someone to shut her up in some deep, dark dungeon and throw away the key.’ When Matt was unresponsive to this suggestion Parker shrugged. ‘No, well, maybe not.’ And he added a little laugh, just to show that he hadn’t really meant it.

Matt was not entirely convinced. ‘I won’t be involved in anything like that,’ he said.

‘Who would? As well as being the darling the of media, a myth in her own lifetime, she also has some powerful family connections.’ He nodded towards the file. ‘It’s all there. See what you can do with it.’

The file was certainly a hefty one, but Matt Crosby put it back on the desk. ‘I’m sure she’s a serious pain in the backside but I just don’t see what you expect me to do about it. I know some of her hangers-on can get a bit out of hand, but she’s a perfect Miss Goody Two-Shoes from all accounts. Never puts a foot wrong.’

‘Well, if she’s looking for evidence that the Gaumont Cinema at Delvering is worth saving she’ll have to break in to find it.’

‘Maybe you should just give her a guided tour, show her that she’s wasting her time? Maybe you should just bulldoze the place down?’ Parker didn’t respond to any of those suggestions. Matt shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose a court appearance would tarnish the halo…’

‘If you think I’m paying your kind of fees just to see her get a fifty-pound fine and a ticking off at the local magistrates’ court, you can think again.’

‘Faced with a brick wall,’ Matt pointed out, ‘you have two choices—bang your head against it, or take it down brick by brick.’

Parker snorted. ‘I haven’t got time for games. This is urgent.’ He leaned forward. ‘You come highly recommended as a troubleshooter, Crosby. This girl is trouble and I want her…’ He hesitated.

‘Shot?’ Matt offered helpfully.

Parker glared at him. ‘Out of my hair. You’re supposed to be some kind of genius at digging up those nasty little secrets people would rather keep buried—’

‘You make a lot of enemies that way.’ Matt looked at the solemn-faced young woman in the photograph. He’d rather make a friend…

The man behind the desk wasn’t interested in his problems. ‘If you dig deep enough there’s got to be something, and once the fawning masses discover that their heroine has feet of clay she’ll find the world is a very lonely place.’

Matt did not find the prospect of digging around in Nyssa Blake’s life looking for dirt in the least bit appealing. ‘This girl is twenty-two years old, Parker, and ever since she dropped out of university she’s spent her time stopping people like you riding roughshod over planning regulations. What the devil do you think I’m going to find?’

‘What about drugs? All those hippie types smoke pot, don’t they?’

‘Do they?’ He shrugged. ‘She’s no hippie, Parker. Besides, I doubt that she smokes anything.’ He regarded Parker steadily, keeping his features expressionless. ‘I’m sure she’d tell you that smoke is bad for the ozone layer.’

The man scowled back at him. ‘Sex, then.’

‘Sex?’ Matt unclipped Nyssa Blake’s photograph from the file and stared at it for a moment. She gazed back at him with frank speedwell-blue eyes that looked out from a small oval face framed by a tiny pageboy bob of bright red hair. Her skin was clear and fresh, her mouth full but without a hint of a smile. She had the earnest look of a crusader about her.

There was nothing conventionally beautiful about Miss Nyssa Blake, but he didn’t doubt that when she entered a room every eye in the place would swivel in her direction.

‘I wouldn’t rely on sex to put people off,’ he said. On the contrary, he was sure that any suggestion that the lady was free with her favours would have every red-blooded male in the country clamouring to join her action group. ‘I should think money is your best bet. Who’s putting up the money for her campaigns? Quality PR doesn’t come cheap. And the kind of coverage she attracts suggests there’s someone behind it who knows what they’re doing.’

‘Donations from well-wishers, according to the lady.’

‘That’s a lot of good wishes.’

‘We seem to be working on the same wavelength at last, Crosby.’ Parker sat back, a small, satisfied smile momentarily straightening his thin lips. ‘And if you draw a blank on the money side of things maybe you should take a look at her family. Her father was a soldier, killed in the Gulf War and posthumously decorated for bravery. I’m sure his daughter would do anything to protect his good name. And the dead can’t sue for libel.’

‘You can make up your own lies, Parker, you don’t need me for that.’

‘Lies won’t do. Even rumours need a little fuel to feed on if they’re going to do any damage; I need something with at least a grain of truth to glue it together. If you come across any suggestion of other women or money problems in her father’s life, I want to know. Do you understand?’ Parker didn’t wait for a reply, taking his understanding for granted. And Matt Crosby understood. He didn’t much like it, but he understood. ‘Her mother remarried three or four years ago,’ Parker continued, then paused. ‘Her new husband is James Lambert. He’s a property developer, too,’ he added, thoughtfully tapping the file. ‘Nyssa Blake dropped out of university at about the same time. That might be an angle worth pursuing. You’ve got plenty of material to work with—’

‘It’s quality that counts, not quantity.’

‘Everyone has something to hide, Crosby. Something that wouldn’t look too good on the front page of the tabloids. If you can’t find anything on the girl, maybe you can dig up some dirt on her family. There are a couple of stepsisters; one is an actress… I just need a lever. I can apply the pressure myself.’

‘If she doesn’t like the man her mother married she’s hardly likely to back off to protect him or his daughters. Why don’t you just ask her what she wants from you, Parker? It would save time and money in the long term.’

‘Wants?’

‘Well, she knows that she’s not going to win in the end. You’re going to tear down a past-its-sell-by-date cinema and replace it with a supermarket. Maybe a few locals have gone all dewy-eyed with nostalgia, remembering their lost youth spent in the back seats of the stalls, but most of the town would probably rather have the supermarket. All she can do is delay you.’

‘All? Every day that passes is costing me—’ He stopped abruptly but Matt didn’t need to be drawn a picture. The rumours were true; if Parker didn’t get the redevelopment of the site through the local planning committee quickly, he was going to be in serious trouble.

‘So why not ask her what she wants? You never know, keeping the original façade might do it. Try reason, be accommodating. And if you can smile while you’re doing it you might discover that you’ve become the hero and Miss Nyssa Blake will be the one who has to convince her supporters that she hasn’t sold out.’

‘That’s an excellent idea, Crosby. Unfortunately the supermarket has a corporate image; art deco Gaumont style doesn’t even come close. Besides, Nyssa Blake wants the whole thing restored to its former glory. She believes the town needs an entertainment centre more than it needs a new supermarket.’

‘Is it? Needed?’ Parker gave him a sharp look, but since Matt hadn’t expected a straight answer he carried on. ‘Look, this isn’t a six-lane highway being bulldozed through a site of scientific interest. It’s just a local battle with the planners. Small stuff. The media will soon lose interest.’

‘You think so?’ Parker, for the first time since Matt had entered the room, smiled with genuine amusement. ‘I wish I shared your confidence. It might be small stuff, Crosby, but Miss Blake is small in the manner of a mosquito—annoying as hell and quite capable of administering a lethal bite.’

‘Maybe you should call the local pest exterminator.’

‘I have. You.’

‘You’ve been misinformed. I’m considered something of pest myself—’

‘Even pests have to eat, and since I’m reliably informed no one in the City is going to employ you within the foreseeable future…’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not so fussy, and if you find something on the girl that I can use there’ll be a bonus on top of your fee.’ The fee he mentioned was substantial, but nowhere near enough.

‘Your informants are out of date, Parker. You’ll have to double that,’ Matt countered, then smiled briefly. ‘Inflation,’ he offered. Parker said nothing, and Matt had the uncomfortable feeling that he could have asked for more and still have got it. ‘I’ll want ten days’ payment in advance before I start, nonrefundable, and my expenses will be what I need to do the job. No more, no less, no quibble.’ He might not particularly relish this job, but right now he couldn’t afford to be picky; he had research of his own to finance. ‘And no dirty business,’ Matt added, just to reinforce what he’d said earlier about Nyssa Blake being locked in a dungeon with the key thrown away.

‘You think a lot of yourself, Crosby.’ Not true. He thought the chance of finding dirt that would stick to Miss Nyssa Blake rated alongside winning the National Lottery, or the discovery of a hoard of Celtic gold jewellery beneath the concrete yard at the rear of his flat, or even a credit balance in his bank account. All things were possible…but the odds were against it. ‘Cash isn’t a problem, is it? I’d prefer to keep this unofficial.’ Parker took a pack of banknotes from a small concealed safe.

‘So long as the ink’s dry,’ Matt replied wryly, taking one of the notes and flicking it through his fingers as if testing its veracity. ‘It all goes through my books—’ his enemies would enjoy seeing him on the wrong side of an Inland Revenue audit ‘—but what you do this end is no concern of mine.’ He stowed the money about the pockets of his suit, picked up the file and nodded. ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’

Image is everything. Nyssa had learned that at her first press conference. Eighteen years old, her hair had been cropped punk-short then, henna-bright against the hastily applied ivory-pale make-up, the black dress borrowed for the occasion from one of her stepsisters.

It had been pure drama and the press had loved her for it. She’d learned a lot that day about image and what it could do for a cause, and she’d abandoned charity store cast-offs and taken on the establishment on its own terms. These days there were developers who backed away from anything she showed an interest in. People took her seriously.

Presumably Charles Parker had thought a neglected cinema would be beneath her notice.

Image. Nyssa stared at her reflection in the mirror. She’d grown out the cropped hair to the briefest of sleek pageboy bobs, but it was still bright red. These days, though, the effect was the result of regular visits to a Knightsbridge crimpers rather than the enthusiastic use of her mother’s dressmaking shears and a packet of henna.

Her naturally pale complexion was accentuated by bright red lips that rarely smiled. And now that solemnity too was part of her image.

She sprayed herself with her favourite scent, with its luscious green topnote of gardenia, and turned to the elegant designer dress hanging over the wardrobe door. Black. Of course.

Fine jersey, smooth and flowing as silk. Taking the dress down from its hanger, she lifted it over her head, sliding her arms into long, narrow sleeves, easing the bodice against her skin and letting the skirt fall in a gentle swirl about her legs. She fastened tiny buttons over breasts lifted and emphasised by a black lace bra, the kind of bra that had caused traffic accidents when the advertising hoardings went up.

She was well aware that the effect was sexy as well as dramatic. It had been planned that way. Short of World War Three breaking out, that glimpse of cleavage would guarantee her a place on the front page of every tabloid tomorrow morning.

She’d learned a lot in three years of campaigning. More than how to walk past a security guard and have him hold open the door for her even as she breached his defences. More than how to convince cynical reporters that she was right. More than how to stick it out when she appeared to be the only person in the whole world who cared…

As she fastened a pair of antique jet drops to her earlobes, there was a tap at the door.

‘Nyssa?’

Her hands trembled as she was seized by nerves and she nearly dropped one of the precious earrings, fielding it with fingers that were suddenly all thumbs. Damn! She hung onto the edge of her dressing table for a moment, taking slow, careful breaths until she recovered. Then she carefully fastened the second drop, painted a smile on her face and opened the door.

‘Gil!’ She tried to keep the heartleap out of her voice. Since her group had grown so loud and annoyed so many important people, her brother-in-law had been trying to get her to use one of the specially trained drivers from his security company. So far she had managed to resist him, but on occasion Gil would turn up before a big event to ‘offer her a lift’. And his home was not more than twenty or so miles away from the bustling market town of Delvering. ‘How unexpected,’ she said, managing just a touch of irony. ‘Just passing, were you?’

‘Not exactly. But I thought you might welcome a little moral support.’

Moral support was the last thing she wanted from her brother-in-law. ‘I have the uncomfortable feeling that, roughly translated, that means you still think I’m a little girl who has bitten off a chunk more than she can chew. Right?’

She longed for him to deny it, but he just laughed. ‘I might think it, but I wouldn’t dare say it. Not the way you’re looking tonight.’

‘Really?’ She hated his laughter, but she’d learned not to let her feelings show around Gil; it wasn’t his fault that she was in love with him, so she kept her voice light. ‘Was that a compliment? I couldn’t be quite sure.’

‘Don’t fish, brat. You’ll have every man in the country leering over your picture in the papers tomorrow. Isn’t that enough?’

No. Of course it wasn’t. There was only one man she had ever wanted to leer at her. Unfortunately he was married to her stepsister.

‘Only if it encourages them to write to the Department of the Environment and demand a planning enquiry,’ she said briskly. ‘Is Kitty with you?’

‘No, Harry’s got the sniffles and you know how she fusses about him, but she sends her love.’ He paused. ‘Actually, she’s a bit tired…’ Nyssa, not exactly panting to hear about his domestic life, smiled politely and made a move towards the door. Gil put his hand on her arm, stopping her. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know, Nyssa. She’s expecting another baby.’

He had wanted to tell her himself. Before someone else did. That was why he’d come tonight.

He’d never said a word, yet it was obvious that he knew all about the schoolgirl crush she’d had on him. A friend of her father’s, albeit a younger one, he had tried to be kind, walking on tiptoe around her feelings, taking care not to hurt her. It was why he still treated her like a schoolgirl, because he suspected, as Kitty did, that it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush. Well, it couldn’t be, could it? She wasn’t a schoolgirl any more; she was twenty-two. And kindness was the last thing she wanted from him.

‘I’m very happy for you both,’ Nyssa said, brightly enough. ‘Have you told James and Sophia?’ She hadn’t been able to bear calling her mother anything but Sophia since she had married Kitty’s widowed father—the memory of her own father was still too precious. ‘You’re going down for James’s birthday, I imagine?’ Nyssa asked.

‘We thought we’d tell everyone then. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

‘If I can,’ she hedged. ‘The feeling is that Parker will attempt to demolish the cinema quickly, before we can get it listed.’ She frowned. ‘He’s been very slow off the mark.’

‘Sophia will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come,’ Gil said, distracting her. ‘We could give you a lift down if you don’t want to drive yourself.’

‘No. I’ll try. Really.’ And then she’d discover something desperately important to do. The alternative was to go and smile and hide her feelings, as she had been doing ever since Gil and Kitty’s wedding. Except that if she stayed away Kitty would know why and feel sorry for her. And her mother would know why and worry about her. And Gil would know why and feel guilty. She couldn’t win. But at least she had an excuse to send him away now. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Gil. You should be at home with Kitty.’

‘She wanted me to come. She worries about you, too, Nyssa.’

Did he really think that knowing his wife had sent him would help? ‘The entire Lambert clan appear to have cornered the worry market on my behalf, but it really isn’t necessary. I’m among friends here, Gil. The worst thing that’s going to happen is the slide projector jamming in the middle of my presentation.’

As if to confirm the truth of her words, someone beat a lively tattoo on the door. ‘Nyssa? Are you ready? We’re all down in the bar waiting for you.’

‘I’ll be right with you, Pete. Get me an orange juice, will you?’

‘Who’s that?’ Gil asked. ‘Your boyfriend?’ He sounded hopeful.

‘Boyfriend?’ She laid her hand against her breast and managed a laugh. ‘What a quaint, old-fashioned word. You might still think of me as a schoolgirl wearing pigtails, Gil, but in case you hadn’t noticed I’m all grown up.’

‘Actually I had noticed. In that dress it’s impossible not to,’ he added, dryly. Then, ‘So why don’t you give your mother a treat and bring him home for the weekend?’

Pete, stick-thin and with a stud through his nose, would hardly be her mother’s idea of a treat, she thought. But if she had a man with her it would help to defuse the tension that seemed to be in the air whenever she and Gil were in the same room. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Gil. I’ll come to the party, and maybe I’ll invite a friend for the weekend, but only if you stop fussing and go home. Right now.’ Please. Before I do something stupid like cry.

Matt was impressed. He’d watched the videos of Nyssa Blake’s previous press conferences, given to him by Charles Parker’s secretary, but they had just been snippets, put together to be distributed to the media and to likely supporters groups: the edited highlights.

He was impressed by the professionalism, but sceptical too. The camera could lie and frequently did; a competent editor could make anyone capable of stringing together a coherent sentence look like Churchill on a good day. He wanted to see the woman in action, see how she looked before all the fluffs and fumbles had been edited out. So he had used his contacts and got himself a press pass and an invitation to the campaign launch at the Assembly Rooms in Delvering.

And he was still impressed. The Assembly Rooms were straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Georgian and decaying grandly in the manner of some great old actress, with charm and elegance. They would look wonderful on television. A picture was worth a thousand words, and this, Nyssa Blake was saying, was the England they were going to save from the Philistines. Not quite true, of course, but the cinema, a masterpiece of art deco design that should have been cherished, had instead fallen into the kind of decrepitude that was unlikely to induce the ‘aaaah’ factor in the average viewer.

It seemed to Matt that there were some very sharp brains handling this organisation. Brains sharp enough to recognise that an idealistic young woman would make a great spokesperson. Maybe, he thought, as his credentials were checked at the entrance, Parker had a point.

‘Thank you, Mr Crosby.’ He clipped the identification label to his ancient denim jacket and took the press pack he was offered by a well-preserved woman wearing a flowing dress, her long hair loose about her shoulders and with a New Age name pinned to her embroidered bodice.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Sky…’

‘Just go through. We’ll be starting in a minute or two. There’ll be drinks and a buffet afterwards.’

‘That’s very generous,’ he said, inclined to linger. He wasn’t interested in propaganda; he wanted gossip. ‘Who’s paying for all this?’

‘Our supporters are very generous.’ She gave him a warm, earth-mother smile. ‘Of course we hope you’ll make a donation towards your supper.’

He’d walked right into that one, but he found himself smiling back, even as he stuffed twenty pounds of Charles Parker’s money into the tin she offered. ‘Is there any chance of an interview with Miss Blake? After the press conference?’

She consulted her list. ‘You’re a freelance, aren’t you?’

‘I am, but I have a commission to write a piece on Miss Blake.’ Well, he did. Of course whether the results ever saw print rather depended on what he unearthed in his investigations.

‘It’s always difficult to arrange private meetings at this kind of occasion, Mr Crosby…’

‘Matt,’ he said.

‘Matt.’ Her smile took on a new depth and he realised he had her undivided attention. Which could be useful. ‘Nyssa will be mingling afterwards; maybe you could catch her then? I’m afraid that’s the best I can do today. Shall I ask her to call you and arrange a time when you’ll be able to talk undisturbed?’

‘I’ll leave my number.’ He produced a card that simply bore his name, and on the back he wrote the number of a new mobile phone acquired for the investigation. She stapled it to a folder, along with half a dozen similar offerings, then turned to a new arrival. ‘Can I catch you later?’ he suggested. ‘For a drink? Maybe you could fill me in on the background?’

‘Ten o’clock in the Delvering Arms?’ she offered, rather too eagerly.

He really needed to look for a new career, Matt thought as he moved on into the foyer, glancing at the press pack he was holding, complete with glossy colour photographs and ‘sound-bite’ notes.

The whole thing was well organised and very well attended, he realised as he looked about him. Nyssa Blake was news. It took more than a free glass of wine and a sausage roll to tempt the press pack out of London on a summer’s evening.

Even if they had no intention of joining her, their readers were eager to know how this young woman intended to set about stopping the developers in their tracks. Youth and innocence against entrenched power always made a good story.

But apart from the local radio and television crews, who were too busy checking equipment and recording their lead-ins to socialise, the newsmen had gathered in small groups, more interested in the latest media gossip than the blown-up photographs of the cinema in its heyday.

Only three or four latecomers were, like him, looking at the photographs and apparently totally absorbed by the notes pinned alongside them. Except the latecomers weren’t totally absorbed. They were giving the appearance of deep interest in the exhibition, but their eyes were everywhere as they checked out the gathering crowd. He recognised the type. Minders. Nothing, it seemed, had been overlooked.

Matt watched them for a few moments and then turned as the inner doors were opened. There were chairs put out in rows, a slide projector in the centre with a screen at the front, and a small lectern with a lamp on a slightly raised dais to the side.

Nyssa Blake clearly wasn’t relying on the photographs to get her message across. She had a captive audience and they were going to listen and learn before they got to the free food. Sky began to usher people towards the seats.

Two of the men with the restless eyes took seats on either side of the projector. Another sat in front of the lectern. A fourth leaned against the wall, near the entrance. They were covering all the vantage points.

Matt settled himself in the end seat of the back row and, out of habit, looked about him to check for an alternative exit. If trouble was expected he had no intention of being caught up in it.

Nyssa waited in the corridor behind the main hall, her throat dry, her pulse beating too fast. She was always nervous before a presentation, afraid she wouldn’t be good enough…

‘Ready?’ Sky asked, joining her. ‘It’s showtime.’

‘How many…?’

‘It’s a good turnout. You’re big news these days.’

‘Right.’ She took a deep breath, opened the door, walked up to the lectern, set to the side of a projection screen, and spread out her notes. For a moment the burble of noise continued and then, as she waited, looking around, acknowledging people she recognised, the room gradually grew quiet. That was when she saw him.

He was sitting right at the back, almost as if he didn’t want to be there. She knew most of the journalists who covered this kind of story but, wearing antique 501s, and with a mop of thick dark hair that looked as if it had been combed with his fingers, he didn’t look like any kind of small-town newspaper man she’d ever met. He looked like a man made for a much bigger stage. Casual he might be, but he made the elegant main hall of the Assembly Rooms look small.

She was smaller than he had imagined from her photographs, and reed-slim, but the neat burnished cap of bright hair, the pale delicate skin, the elegant black dress were pure drama, and every eye in the room was fixed on her, waiting for her to speak.

Matt was not easily impressed, nor, he suspected, were the journalists who had gathered there, and yet he felt a quickening in the air, a stir of anticipation as she looked around the room, acknowledging acquaintances with the briefest of smiles.

Then her gaze came to rest on him, lingering in a look that seemed to single him out, to hold his attention, and just for a second he had the disconcerting sensation that she could see right through him, recognise him for what he was.

He had wondered, looking at her photograph in Parker’s office, if her eyes could really be that impossible shade of blue, or whether, like her hair, the colour had been enhanced for effect.

But there was no need to enhance anything. The effect came from something that lit her from within and he knew what it was. Passion.

And her look, he discovered, as for just a moment their gazes locked and held, had a kick like a mule.

Matt hadn’t been affected in that way by a woman since Lucy Braithwaite had kissed him in the vestry after choir practice, cutting short a promising career as a solo treble.

He was still struggling to recover his breath when Nyssa Blake took a sip of water before finally beginning to speak.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming to Delvering today,’ she began.

Her voice, unexpectedly low and slightly husky, rippled through him, stirring the small hairs at the nape of his neck. Was that how she did it? How she drew supporters to her, twisted cynical newspaper hacks around her dainty fingers, walked past security guards without let or hindrance? Did she just turn on the lamps behind her eyes, murmur in that low voice and turn them into her willing slaves?

He rubbed his hand over his face in an attempt to pull himself together. He hadn’t come to the press conference to join the Nyssa Blake fan club. He simply wanted to get the measure of the girl…woman…

Well, he was doing that all right. But it sure as hell wasn’t what he had expected.

‘I do hope you have all taken advantage of this opportunity to look around Delvering, to talk to local people, to discover for yourselves what exactly is at stake here,’ she continued. Then quite unexpectedly she grinned, and for a moment he saw the girl, still there behind the sophisticated veneer. ‘But don’t worry if you haven’t,’ she said, indicating the projector with a wave of her hand. It was a gesture that would have done justice to a geisha, controlled, exquisitely graceful, and for just a moment his body seemed to do a loop-the-loop as he imagined what that hand could do to him. ‘I’m about to enlighten you, so save your questions until after the show.’

There was a murmur of laughter as the light dimmed until there was just a small shaded lamp over the notes on the lectern, the powerful beam from the projector directing all eyes to the screen with its aerial view of the small market town of Delvering.

As if this was a prearranged signal, several people leapt to their feet in the darkness. There was an angry yell that turned into a cry of pain from the man standing by the projector as it was overturned, hitting the floor was a crash that blew the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

The heavies. He didn’t have to see them to know. He’d recognised them for what they were, despite their suits and their careful interest in Nyssa Blake’s work, and he’d assumed they were minders. He’d been wrong.

And there was one right in front of the lectern.

Without pausing to consider the wisdom of his actions, Matt Crosby hurled himself towards the shaded light that illuminated nothing but Nyssa Blake’s small hands, frozen in the act of turning over the first page of her notes.