His Personal Agenda. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
time to think, he turned his head away, looking back to where a noisy crowd had gathered in front of the Assembly Rooms, with people carrying placards demanding the jobs a supermarket would bring to the town and indicating rather graphically that the protesters should get lost.
‘They weren’t there ten minutes ago,’ he said. ‘Where have they come from?’
‘Mobs-R-Us?’ she suggested, with disdain. ‘Does it matter? They’ve done what they were paid for.’ Clearly it was the payment that had earned her disdain, not their methods of protesting.
‘At least you’re certain of making the evening news,’ Matt agreed, and even as he spoke the television cameras were being trained on the angry crowd. ‘That’ll be good for business.’
Her expression suggested otherwise. ‘I’d hoped to put our case in a reasoned and thoughtful manner.’
‘Do you want to go back and try again?’
‘There’s no point. I’ve lost control of the situation. If I go back they’ll just shout me down, drown me out. Besides, I’m not dressed for a scuffle.’ She smiled a little. At close quarters the blue eyes were lethal. ‘Isn’t that why you grabbed me? To keep me out of the way? Give them a free run at this?’
He’d thought he’d convinced her. Clearly he had been kidding himself. ‘Weren’t you listening?’ he demanded, just a little angry that his good deed was not being fully appreciated for the altruistic gesture it was. Considering he was supposed to be on the other side. Was on the other side. Except that when he’d said no dirty business he’d meant it. ‘I’m not the one who did the grabbing.’ He said it slowly and carefully, just to be certain that she understood. ‘Someone else had that dubious pleasure. I simply got you out of there, and precious little thanks I’ve had for my pains.’
‘Thanks he wants,’ she murmured sarcastically. ‘It’s a nice story, Mr…’ she glanced at the lapel badge clipped to his collar ‘…Mr Crosby, but really—’
‘It’s no story, lady,’ he said, flexing his stinging hand and holding it up for her to see. ‘I’ve got the wounds to prove it.’
For a moment she stared at his battered and bloody knuckles. Then frowned. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘That’s what happens when you hit someone with your fist, or hadn’t you noticed?’ He took her hand and looked at it. There was a little bruising on one of the knuckles, nothing worse, but even so when he rubbed the pad of his thumb across them she winced and pulled away. ‘You see? Maybe next time I should take a leaf out of your book and use my feet,’ he said sardonically. Then he realised that she was shaking. ‘Oh, look. It’s not that bad, really. It was worth a little pain.’
‘I hate violence,’ she said, with a long shudder. She could have fooled him, but as the trembling reached her voice he put his arm about her and held her close, absorbing the shudders into his own body.
‘To tell you the truth, Miss Blake, I’m not all that keen on it myself,’ he said, but with her cheek soft against his neck, her slender body fragile as a bird in his arms, he knew just how easy it would be to seriously damage anyone who would hurt her.
As if sensing some change in him, she looked up. ‘Who are you really?’ she asked. Then she groaned. ‘Oh, wait, I get it. You’re one of Gil’s tame bodyguards, right?’ And she pulled back a little. ‘I should have known when he left this evening without making a fuss that he’d covered all possibilities…’
Matt didn’t say anything. He’d read the files; he knew well enough that the Gil in question had to be her brother-in-law, or more accurately her stepbrother-in-law, Gil Paton. Invalided out of the army after he had taken a sniper’s bullet in the Balkans, he now led a consortium of ex-soldiers in a business covering all kinds of security and protection. It was reasonable enough that he would organise some protection for her, which perhaps was why Matt hadn’t thought twice about the minders. She had obviously been resisting the idea, though, which was interesting.
‘Okay, Mr Crosby…’ She squinted at the label attached to his jacket. ‘Matt? Is that really your name?’ She made one of those graceful little gestures. ‘No, don’t answer that, since you won’t tell me the truth anyway…’ She glanced up at him. ‘Okay, Mr Crosby, you’ve done your job. You can take me back to the hotel now.’
‘For the brandy and the interview?’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Never?’
‘Not since I turned eighteen. Before that, of course, it was almost mandatory. A bit like losing your virginity before you go into the sixth form…’ Her voice trailed away, and for just a moment he thought she was going to blush, which was interesting. It was clearly a well-used ploy to shock maiden aunts—if such things still existed—but why would she think it would shock him? Why would she even bother to try? His silence seemed to unnerve her a little. ‘Actually, you might be right about that drink.’
‘I know I am.’ He leaned forward to start his car. ‘And it’s definitely time we got out of here,’ he added, as he glanced in the mirror. ‘Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about giving an interview?’ With a jerk of his head he indicated the approaching television crew, who were looking for anyone who might have seen something interesting or some local with a point of view to air.
She half turned, hesitated, then shook her head. ‘No…’
‘You’re sure? You could win the sympathy vote right now. A few tears on the pavement will melt hearts of stone. And the glimpse of underwear will ensure you have at least half the country’s undivided attention.’
She stiffened, grabbed the front of her dress and began to work on the buttons. ‘That’s not my style, Mr Crosby.’ She caught his questioning look. ‘They might have wrecked my press conference but I’ll think of some way to turn this to my advantage. I mean, it hardly puts Mr Parker on the side of the angels, does it? It’s odd, because I would have thought he was cleverer than that…’
‘Maybe he’s more desperate than you thought. And you’ve missed the point.’ And a button, but he thought it wiser not to mention that. ‘If whoever set this up had been successful, you wouldn’t have been around to organise anything.’
She stared at him and he could see the reality of what had happened was beginning to sink in. ‘Yes. I see.’ She glanced back again. ‘Maybe I should—’
‘No, you shouldn’t. As you said, it’s not your style.’ Besides which, her lipstick was smudged, her sleek cap of hair uncharacteristically mussed. For a moment she didn’t look anything like the controlled, determined young woman who had fearlessly taken on big business and had it on the run. She looked like a girl who, for a moment, was just a little bit lost, and Matt wanted to hold her, reassure her. He managed to stop himself, but it was a close-run thing. ‘And if you’re at all keen to hang onto your reputation for unruffled perfection in the face of adversity, Miss Blake, I think I should tell you that you could use a comb.’
She lifted her hand to her hair in a self-conscious gesture. ‘Oh, right. In that, case, Mr Crosby, I suggest we retire to the bar of the hotel with all speed.’
‘Just Crosby will do,’ he said as he let slip the handbrake, checked the mirror and moved away from the kerb. ‘Or Matt, if you promise to keep your feet to yourself. I don’t usually allow people who kick me to get that personal. What do your family call you?’ he asked, while she was making up her mind.
‘A nuisance?’ she offered. ‘And I hate to think what the construction industry call me.’
‘Much the same,’ he said, with a grin. ‘But the less printable versions.’ And, since he didn’t intend listing them, he put his foot down hard and his old Mercedes surged forward, leaving the approaching news hounds standing.
Once out of sight of the Assembly Rooms he slowed, and a few moments