Altered Images (27 page)

‘Bloody hell, what's that?' he muttered.

But Reeve already knew what it was. It was Annis. And she was in trouble! He sprinted up the drive as the taxi-driver scrabbled for his own cab radio to ask his office to call the cops. He gave the address and then slowly, reluctantly, got out of his cab. Reeve had already disappeared inside.

In the kitchen, the sound of her scream made Carl Struthers flinch. ‘Shut up you interfering . . .' he growled, moving quickly around the table.

Annis, thinking furiously, made a mock-feint to her left, saw him move to intercept,
then
ran swiftly to her right, heading for the kitchen drawer where she knew an array of sharp knives waited. She sobbed as she scrabbled at the drawer handle, got it open and reached inside for a knife.

And suddenly she saw a red flash of colour in front of her eyes, felt herself being pressed hard and painfully against the kitchen unit as Carl Struthers slammed into her from behind. Then she felt a cool silky strip of material tighten around her neck. Her body went cold. She gasped, then choked, as the air was suddenly, horrifyingly, cruelly, cut off.

She felt her head begin to pound. And then, over the roaring of the blood in her ears, she heard an outraged, screaming yell. Carl Struthers jerked around, his grip on his victim loosening in surprise. Annis managed to drag in a small but life-saving gulp of air as Reeve launched himself across the room, just as flashing blue lights began to fill the room with strident, intermittent colour.

Outside, the taxi-driver frantically waved the uniformed police to the right house.

Reeve took Carl in a flying rugby tackle, knocking the publisher away from her as they both crash-landed against a washing machine. Reeve grunted in pain as his shoulder connected painfully with a knob. Carl Struthers let out a blood-curdling yell and swung a fist.

Annis looked up, eyes streaming with tears
of
fright and pain, just in time to see Reeve duck below the punch, get up on his knees, and land a punch of his own squarely on the Struthers' jaw. And then, suddenly, the room was full of blue-uniformed men. One of them reached for Reeve, dragging him up with hard hands under his armpits.

Annis tried to protest, but her voice was nothing more than a sore and hoarse croak. But she needn't have worried. The other policeman had gone straight for Carl Struthers and was now holding on to him as Struthers struggled and swore furiously.

Reeve shrugged off the hold on him, saw her kneeling on the floor, wide-eyed, shaking, battered, and his eyes too opened wide.

She held out her arms as he raced to her, dropping on to his knees in a skidding thud on the slick kitchen tiles, and gathered her close. She sobbed into his chest as the two policeman handcuffed and took the struggling art collector away. Reeve held her for a long, long time.

*          *          *

Monday morning brought heavy thunder and rain.

At Squitchey Lane, it wasn't the remembrance of the night's terrors that came back fast to Annis Whittington, but the gentle, tender, wonderful lovemaking she and Reeve
had
shared into the early hours of the morning. She stretched, enjoying the somnolent, boneless feeling a woman has when she's just spent a night with the lover of her dreams.

‘Good morning,' Reeve said cheerfully, pushing the door open and walking in with a tray of freshly-squeezed orange juice, bubbling hot coffee, and a bowl of porridge.

‘Porridge?' Annis said, sitting up. ‘I was expecting smoked salmon and French toast at the very least.'

Reeve grinned as he put the tray on her lap. ‘I thought porridge would be easier to get down,' he said casually, and kissed her tender throat. Annis swallowed back the desire to cry. His thoughtfulness cut her to the quick. It was so rare in a man.

‘Well,' she said, leaning back against the headboard. ‘Just what does a lady say to the man who saved her life?' She asked raising one of her dark eyebrows in query.

Reeve stretched out on the bed beside her, and grinned. ‘She says yes,' he responded softly.

Annis's other eyebrow shot up. ‘Yes?' she echoed softly. ‘Yes to what? You've already had your wicked way with me—most of the night, as I seem to remember.'

Reeve grinned. ‘True.'

‘So,' she said persistently. ‘What must I say “yes” to?'

‘A
question, of course,' he said softly, bending down to kiss her knee through the quilt.

Annis smiled. ‘Ah. Well now, it depends on what the question is,' she said reasonably, ‘doesn't it?'

Reeve looked up at her. His dark curls were damp, as if he'd showered before making breakfast. His oh-so-handsome face was sober. His dark-blue eyes were like sapphires, sparkling, and precious to her.

‘Will you marry me?' he asked softly.

Annis blinked. ‘What?'

‘Will you marry me?'

‘Yes.'

‘See,' he said softly. ‘I told you you'd say “yes”.'

*          *          *

Lorcan Greene turned off the windscreen wipers as they finally drove out of the storm.

‘Mum and Dad are expecting us,' Frederica said softly, as she wound down her window. ‘I called them just before we left.'

Lorcan nodded. ‘Good. I want to have a word with your father,' he said ominously.

Frederica turned her head towards him. Her hair was back in its usual ponytail, and the sunlight was sparking little flames off it. Her freckles stood out like so many tiny beauty spots, begging to be kissed individually, and he
had
to drag his eyes from her or run them into a ditch. As they approached Cross Keys, Lorcan reached out and took her hand in his. ‘Feeling OK?' he asked softly.

Frederica laughed. ‘Why shouldn't I be?' Last night they'd slept together the whole night through in her narrow college bed, Frederica curled up against his chest like a little ginger cat. It had been the first time she'd ever slept with the sound of a man's heartbeat pulsing in her ears, and knew it was how she wanted to sleep for ever after.

They turned down the drive and pulled up outside Rainbow House. As he turned off the Aston Martin's purring engine, he turned to look at her. ‘Well,' he said softly.

Frederica sighed. ‘I suppose we'd better face the music. Dad will be disappointed we don't have the painting with us.'

Lorcan smiled mysteriously and got out of the car. He walked round and opened the door for her, helping her out.

‘Your father,' he said softly, pulling her to her feet, ‘will have other things to worry about.'

‘Oh?' Frederica asked curiously. ‘Like what, for instance?'

‘Like whether or not he'll have to sell off another painting in order to pay for his daughter's wedding,' Lorcan said. ‘Not that he will. I thought we'd go for something quiet and simple. At the church here of course,' he
added,
turning to look at Cross Keys parish church tower, nestling in a dell of red horse-chestnut trees. ‘A few guests—no more than thirty or so, I should think,' he carried on, his voice soft and thoughtful. ‘I've got a friend who'd design and make your wedding dress . . .'

Frederica leaned weakly against the Aston Martin.

‘And for a honeymoon . . . Tahiti? Step in Gaugin's foot-steps?' He turned, smiling at the stunned look on her face. ‘Well, after all this, you didn't think I was going to let you get away from me, did you?' he asked, his voice not quite teasing, not quite threatening. But nearly.

Frederica felt her heart thump. He was so damned arrogant. So damned sure of himself. So out of her league . . . Except that now, he wasn't out of her league at all.

‘Tahiti sounds nice,' she mused. ‘But since we Delacroixs are temporarily impoverished, I think we can forget tradition, and you can pay for the wedding.'

Lorcan grinned. ‘Done.'

‘I think I have been,' Frederica said drolly, but she was already reaching up for him.

Obediently, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

He was still kissing her when Donna and James Delacroix, alerted by the sound of the car, stepped outside on to the porch.

‘Well!' Donna said, for once speechless.

Frederica
looked across at her parents and sighed. ‘Poor old Dad, she'll kill him when he tells her he's sold “The Old Mill and Swans”,' she said wistfully.

Lorcan put his arm around her, and together they turned to walk to the house. ‘Well,' Lorcan drawled, ‘you could always paint him another copy.'

Frederica stopped dead in her tracks, her head snapping around to look up at him.

‘What?' she squeaked.

Lorcan looked down at her dark velvety eyes, freckled nose, and a mouth gone slack with shock.

He burst into laughter.

‘Oh Frederica,' he crowed, ‘you should see your face!'