Love's Prisoner

His question had sounded like a challenge, and to admit to the truth—that she was presently unattached—would have seemed like an admission of failure.

‘The man doesn’t have enough room for you and your possessions?’ Piers enquired.

‘Fraid not,’ she said, wishing he would not stand in a way which had made her aware of the zippered crotch of his jeans and the male outline beneath the stretched denim. In a way which was making her feel short of breath and...distracted.

‘What’s your boyfriend called?’ he asked.

‘Um—’ she searched for a name ‘—Jo.’

‘Jo what?’

‘Manning.’

She did have a friend called Jo Manning, but the ‘Jo’ was short for Joanna.

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘Works in an investment bank,’ Suzy said, hastily transferring facts which related to the female accountant to the make-believe boyfriend.

‘If you can’t find suitable accommodation in the next fortnight, what happens then?’ asked Piers.

‘My parents suggested I move back in with them for a while, but Dorset is too far away.’ She grimaced. ‘So—’

‘How are your parents?’ he cut in.

‘They’re very well, thanks. So,’ Suzy continued, ‘I’ll need to put my bits and pieces into store and seek temporary asylum with a girl friend, but storage is costly, and if I stay with—’ she almost said with Jo ‘—with someone, it’ll mean sleeping on a sofa. You’re reluctant to be interviewed because you think it’ll interfere with your plans to visit people, to take a holiday?’ she hazarded, executing an abrupt change of tack. ‘It won’t. I’ll fit in with whatever—’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘My editor’s forbidden me from returning to work for at least another month—’ he frowned ‘—much to my disgust, but I intend to stay at home.’

Her sapphire-blue eyes stretched wide. ‘You’re spending the next four weeks at your apartment in Barnes?’ she protested, astonished that a man who had once thrived on travelling, and who had so recently been confined, should display such an uncharacteristic lack of wanderlust.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ he enquired.

‘Well, I’d have thought that—’

Suzy stopped short as his reason for staying home suddenly hit. After a year away, Piers would want time, peace and quiet in which to re-establish his relationship with Amanda Dundas, the actress—and doubtless to express his gratitude. She gave a silent cryptic laugh. When he’d disappeared, his father had immediately launched a campaign to keep Piers’ plight in the public eye and try to secure his release. Hugo Armstrong had written to innumerable governments, paid endless calls on politicians, chivvied his theatrical associates into taking part in regular ‘support the hostage’ events which he had organised. Among those roped in had been Amanda. The reed-slim brunette had taken a part in a play-reading which had attracted nationwide publicity, and subsequently issued a press statement saying how devoted she had been to Piers, how much she missed him, and how she hoped everyone would work towards his freedom. The implication was that her own efforts were and would continue to be unstinting.

It had not been so. While Amanda had rushed to give newspaper and TV interviews, when she’d contrived to look both melancholy and yet incredibly fetching, she had avoided any common-or-garden slog. Other people—Suzy included—might have performed office duties, walked miles putting up posters, sold tickets and programmes ad infinitum, but Piers’ girlfriend had done nothing. However, this had not stopped her from turning up at the airport on his return and throwing herself sobbing into his arms; though it had been noticeable that the sobs had not been hard enough to make her mascara run or her eyes go puffy. And at the press conference which followed, she had given a shameless impersonation of having laboured long and hard in Piers’ campaign.

In reality, the person Amanda Dundas had been campaigning for was herself, Suzy thought caustically. Determined to become a top actress, though so far stardom had steadfastly refused to beckon, she had capitalised on Piers’ situation by raking in all possible publicity—with the aim of boosting her career. However, while her motives had been recognised, and condemned, by those in the know, no one was going to reveal such a cruel truth to a returned hostage. This meant Piers would remain unaware, and be highly appreciative of his girlfriend’s phoney and yet much flaunted support.

‘What would you have thought?’ Piers prompted.

‘Er—that if you’re going to be in London for the next month, you must be able to spare the occasional morning or afternoon,’ Suzy quickly adjusted.

‘I could,’ he agreed, and paused. ‘However, I’m not going to.’

‘You’ve spoken to just about everyone else, so why shut the door on me?’ she protested.

‘I spoke to them on the understanding that once I left the clinic, I’d be left alone.’

‘But—’

‘I thought you said that if I was sick and tired of talking, you’d understand? Guess what, I am sick and tired—of this conversation.’ Piers looked at the watch which was strapped to his broad, hair-sprinkled wrist. ‘Isn’t it time you were on your way to Fulham, Sparky?’

Suzy’s hands crunched into irritated fists. Three years ago, Piers had called her ‘Sparky’. Then she had regarded the word as an endearment and had actually, pathetically, liked it, but now it could be recognised as a tag bestowed by a patronising male. How dared he patronise her, she thought furiously, and how dared he refuse to be in her book? A couple of hours ago she might have been fighting against his inclusion, but now she had reconsidered and, perhaps spurred in part by his rebuffs, had executed an about-turn. Randolph had been right, a profile on Piers Armstrong would add an extra dimension and some pizzazz. It would improve the book, and her writer’s blood was up. He must be included. And if she happened to make some money out of him along the way—well, it would be poetic justice!

‘Suppose I show you my manuscript?’ she suggested, certain that, no matter what he had said, his opinion of her writing capabilities must be the real stumbling block. ‘Then you’ll know I’m not in the business of sensationalising or sentimentalising.’ She shone a smile of what was intended to be melting sweetness. ‘How’d it be if I drop a copy in to you tomorrow?’

Piers walked across the room towards her. ‘You’re hellbent on coaxing me to be profiled?’ he said.

Suzy hesitated, aware of a nuance and yet unable to understand. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed guardedly.

He dropped down opposite her on the sofa, his hands languorously parked in his jeans pockets and his long legs stretched out. ‘The way you were hellbent on coaxing me once before?’ he enquired, in a soft, menacing tone. ‘The way you seduced me into doing something which I had strong doubts about, but which you very much desired?’

Memories ricocheted through her mind and a hot wave of colour flooded up her throat. Now she understood exactly what he was talking about. How could she ever have been so shameless, so wanton? she wondered...and so heartbreakingly innocent.

‘Not like that,’ she said, checking her watch again, which meant she did not need to look at him.

‘In order to achieve your objective, you won’t be wearing a knock-’em-dead dress?’ taunted Piers, the menace in his voice hardening into cold contemptuous steel. ‘Or stroking your fingers along my thigh, or—’

Suzy’s head jerked up and she met his gaze. She would not be intimidated or flustered or deterred by this reference to the past.

‘You’ve made an extremely lucrative living out of people talking to you,’ she said, attempting to persuade him and yet sound nonchalant at one and the same time, which was rather like tightrope-walking on a rubber band, ‘so don’t you think it’s only fair that I should be given the chance to—’

A snarl unleashed itself from the back of his throat and he sat up straight. ‘You talk about fairness? You want to use me,’ he stated, ‘the way you used me once before.’

Reaction against his charge kicked against her stomach, yet Suzy refused to respond. There was nothing to be gained from opening old wounds. But Piers Armstrong had not forgotten her. On the contrary, he appeared to possess total recall of what had happened between them three years ago, and it rankled. Infuriated. Had festered. She cast him a look. This seemed strange, for, whatever the depth of her hurt, the only damage he had suffered was a small knock to his ego which, at the time, he had taken in his stride.

‘All the other men in my book have said that talking to me was therapy,’ she persisted.

‘Bully for them—however, I’m not in need of therapy,’ he replied. ‘And if I were, the last person I’d choose as my shrink is you.’

‘But—’

‘Am I talking in code?’ Piers demanded. ‘I’m not giving you your interviews. This time—this time,’ he said, repeating the words with blistering emphasis, ‘you’re going to have to manage without me.’

Suzy gathered up her bag, swept to her feet and, with her head held high, marched to the door. ‘And I will!’ she declared.

CHAPTER TWO

THE machine swallowed her ticket, and Suzy walked through the barrier, up the stairs and out of the Underground station into the summer sunshine. Hooking the strap of her beige leather satchel more securely on to her shoulder, she set off towards Regent’s Park and the grand Nash terrace where Hugo Armstrong had his home.

Last week, in the split-second after the returned hostage had so forcibly told her that she must manage without him, Suzy had realised that she could—and still include him in her book. As there were plenty of unauthorised biographies around, so she could write an unauthorised profile—if she read up on what had already been published about him, and if his family and friends were prepared to talk.

When Randolph Gardener had rung the next morning to ask how she had got on at the clinic, Suzy had floated her plan.

‘It’s not the ideal,’ she admitted, ‘but I see no reason why Piers’ lack of co-operation should be allowed to kill the project stone dead.’