Beaumont Brides Collection (45 page)

Men kissed her at her invitation and Mr MacIntyre hadn’t been asked to the party. After what he had just put her through, he wasn’t about to be.

She would never forget the long seconds of nightmare fall, the flashing certainty that she would never see the baby that her sister Fizz was expecting, never have a baby of her own.

The sudden jerk of the parachute opening had come as such a shock that she had forgotten everything Tony had taught her and she’d been flailing about like an idiot when she hit the ground. Her ankle had twisted beneath her and instead of falling in the controlled roll she had been practising, she had crumpled up awkwardly and scraped her mouth against the harness, banged her cheek against the rough grass. All because Gabriel-bloody-MacIntyre had decided, for no good reason, to change her parachute at the last moment.

And to cap it all he thought he’d take up where his precious partner had left off. Well, now he knew better.

There was a pop and a cheer as someone opened a bottle of champagne and she turned away, taking a glass, playing up to the camera as her fellow parachutists gathered round to offer her congratulations and to these gentlemen she offered her cheek, although if her mouth hadn’t been bruised, she wouldn’t have hesitated to rub salt into Mac’s wounds.

She sipped from the glass gingerly, the champagne fizz stinging against her lip when what she really wanted was a cup of strong, nerve-steadying tea.

‘Where’s Mac?’ Barty shouted from the trailer. ‘Get him in the picture somebody.’

Claudia swivelled round defensively, her eyes daring him to come one step closer. But he hadn’t moved from the jeep. He was standing just where she had left him, very still, very contained, his whole being focussed on her. The imprint of her hand had faded from his weathered, outdoor skin more quickly than he deserved, but at least he was making no effort to join in the celebration.

Claudia blinked, uncertainly. There was something unnerving about the man. A detachment. Although there had been nothing detached about the way he had kissed her. That had been the real thing and for a moment his look held her before she turned away, handing her glass to one of the breathless young men hanging on her every movement.

‘That’s enough, Barty,’ she called out. ‘I have to get back to London.’ She glanced at her poor, battered car. ‘Can you give me a lift?’

‘If you’re quick,’ he said, a certain stiffness betraying his irritation with her for cutting short the filming. ‘I can’t wait all day.’

‘Neither can I,’ Claudia muttered, under her breath. ‘The sooner I get out of this place the better.’ She turned quickly in the direction of the hangar, a move she regretted as the weight came down awkwardly on her left ankle. She stumbled and although he had been yards away a moment earlier it was Mac who caught her.

‘Your landing looked a bit heavy,’ he said, his face expressionless. It was impossible to tell if he was delighted by this, or merely bored. He nodded in the direction of her foot. ‘Is your ankle very painful?’ Claudia received the distinct impression that he hoped it was.

‘My ankle, for your information, hurts like hell but it proves I’m alive and I can assure you that there is no feeling to beat it.’

It was possible that a spark of humour flashed briefly across his face at the intensity with which this was uttered, but she couldn’t be sure. Blue-eyes was not a man to give himself away unless thoroughly provoked and she wondered, briefly, what had provoked him into kissing her.

‘No assurance is necessary, Miss Beaumont, I know exactly how it feels. And anytime you’d like to repeat the experience, just give me a call.’ With considerable restraint, Claudia resisted the temptation to slap him again.

Instead, she said, ‘Anytime I feel like repeating the experience, Mr MacIntyre, I shall go and lie down in a darkened room until I have recovered.’

‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself.’

‘Are you? It’s odd, but I had the impression that if you could have thrown me out without a parachute you would have done it gladly.’ She tilted back her head to stare up at him. He didn’t bother to deny it, just stared right back and after a moment she lifted her shoulders in the slightest, but most speaking of shrugs.

‘You should have relaxed, Miss Beaumont, let yourself go. Parachuting is the nearest you’ll ever get to flying-’

‘When I want to fly, Mr MacIntyre, I’ll audition for Peter Pan.’

‘Attached to a harness?’ His scorn was undisguised.

‘Very firmly attached to a harness.’ She hadn’t taken her eyes from his face and now she challenged him. ‘And if parachuting is such fun why did you stay put in the safety of the plane?’ The muscles around his mouth tightened ominously, but Claudia was into her stride and didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Tell me, Mac, why did you really change the parachute? Was it simply to frighten me?’

‘Frighten you? Why would I do that?’ This time she had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her even though his face didn’t betray him by so much as a crease around his eyes. ‘You were quite scared enough without any help from me.’

She didn’t deny it. ‘Then why?’ she persisted.

Mac, until that moment rock-steady in his regard, suddenly discovered something in need of his total attention just an inch above her head. ‘I told you,’ he said, dismissively. ‘The packing was sloppy.’

‘Bullshit.’

He blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Claudia did not believe she was being invited to repeat herself, although she could be wrong about that. Maybe this towering hulk of Neanderthal manhood was so stunned by the fact that she had dared to contradict him, he was finding it difficult to believe his own ears. One thing was certain however, contradicting Mr MacIntyre gained her his absolute and undivided attention. She didn’t waste it.

‘Are you sloppy when you pack your own parachute?’ she enquired, with rather more politeness than she considered his due under the circumstances. ‘Or do you concentrate very hard?’ Her expression encouraged him to give the matter his deepest thought. ‘I imagine you have a pretty fair idea of what would happen to you if the canopy didn’t open?’

His face tightened. ‘Yes, I have a good idea what would happen.’

‘Of course you do. Well, believe it or not, I have an equally well developed sense of self preservation.’ Gabriel MacIntyre’s arm was about her waist, taking her weight as she leaned into his shoulder. It was probably the most accommodating shoulder, Claudia decided, that she had ever leaned against, broad and comforting despite the very obvious fact that comforting her was the furthest thing on this man’s mind. Her well-developed sense of self-preservation strongly advised her to remove herself from his vicinity with despatch. And she would. But first she was determined to set the record straight. ‘I took the very greatest care when I packed that parachute, Mac. And Tony didn’t take his eyes off me while I was doing it. If you don’t believe me, every minute of the operation was filmed-’

‘I believe it,’ he said, quickly.

‘So?’ she demanded, finally detaching herself from his arm and turning to face him.

This time he resisted the urge to look somewhere else. She wondered why he found it so difficult. It wasn’t as if she was particularly hard on the eyes.

‘I just wanted to be sure, that’s all.’

She stared at him for a moment. ‘Shall I tell you something, Mr MacIntyre?’ He raised no objection, so she continued. ‘I don’t believe you. I think you wanted to give me a fright and for your information you succeeded.’ With that she pushed passed him and limped across the hangar.

‘Claudia, how much longer are you going to be?’ Barty complained.

‘As long as it takes,’ she snapped. ‘Wait.’ And Barty, brought to heel like a badly behaved dog, waited while she collected her belongings, not bothering to change back into her own clothes. Then, in an effort to appease her for his impatience, he clucked around her while she settled herself in his car. ‘Oh, don’t fuss so, Barty,’ she said, slapping his hand away as he fastened her seat belt and closing her eyes. ‘Just get me out of here. Fast.’

Barty didn’t need telling twice and he reversed away from her own battered vehicle and drove off with exactly the kind of flourish that Mac had accused her of.

Claudia pulled a little face. Men were allowed to show off, women were supposed to drive sedate little hatchbacks designed for the transportation of the average two point four children to schools, cubs, ballet classes and swimming lessons. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always the excitement of collecting the weekly shop from the supermarket. Not her style at all.

She wasn’t domesticated, and she wasn’t in the market for a husband or a family. Except for that brief moment when she thought she would die, the idea of having a baby, a child of her own, had never crossed her mind.

She glanced back, but Gabriel MacIntyre had already turned away, obviously more interested in the damage to his own car than whether Barty could be trusted to get her home in one piece.

*****

Mac kicked the tyre of the Landcruiser. Damn woman. He turned to the remains of her showy little sports car. Scarlet. Well it would be. Screaming for attention, like Claudia Beaumont. Except of course she didn’t have to do anything to attract attention. She had that tall, willowy, head-turning presence that drew every eye to her, whether they wanted to look or not.

It was precious little wonder that Tony had fallen for it. There wasn’t any doubt that she’d be dynamite in bed. And just as dangerous. Tony was fortunate that he’d managed to convince Adele that he hadn’t got around to finding out. As it was she’d keep him on an emotional diet of bread and water until she considered that he had paid thoroughly for even thinking about it.

No more than the idiot deserved since it was obvious that Claudia Beaumont had simply been toying with him, using the glamour she exuded to tempt him for her own amusement.

He opened the door of the car. Typical of a woman, he thought, as he reached for the keys she’d left so carelessly in the ignition. Not that her car looked as if it was going anywhere ever again. But looks could be deceptive.

He slipped behind the wheel, pushed back the seat and started her up, smiling despite himself at the rich throaty purr from the engine. It was a lovely machine, utterly wasted on the likes of a woman like Claudia Beaumont who only wanted it in order to draw attention to herself.

He reversed slowly away from the hangar so that he could get a better idea of the damage she had caused. And when he touched the brakes nothing happened. He wasn’t impressed. Undoubtedly the line carrying the brake fluid had fractured on impact. He pumped the handbrake and the car, moving slowly, stopped without a problem. He turned off the engine and got out, inspecting the grass in front of him. Apart from the marks left by the wheels, the grass was clean.

*****

It was with some relief that Claudia was decanted at her own doorstep rather less than an hour later despite the heavy traffic on the Chiswick flyover. When she had said fast, Barty had taken her at her word.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Claudia,’ he said. ‘And wear those overalls, they’ll look very dashing on the show.’

‘Dashing isn’t my style, Barty.’

‘Dashing and sexy,’ he amended. ‘The overalls, complete with grass stains. And if that bruise develops nicely I’ll want to see that as well.’

‘Barty!’

‘You want the viewers to know how hard you worked to part them from their money, don’t you?’

For a moment she considered arguing, but then she shrugged. ‘Whatever you say.’

‘I’ll send a car to pick you up at the theatre after the matinee.’ He waited for her to get out. She didn’t and after a moment he came around and opened the door for her, impatiently offering her a hand as she levered herself awkwardly onto the pavement on an ankle which would have already swollen but for the tightly laced boot.

It was difficult not to contrast his grudging manner with Gabriel MacIntyre’s instinctive offer of assistance. Barty wouldn’t win any awards for his manners. But then Barty wouldn’t kiss her, either.

She winced as the thought provoked a smile. She’d better get some ice on her lip. And some professional strapping on her ankle, or she’d limp through her performance tonight.

‘Are you crazy, Mac? I know better than to play about with parachutes once they’re packed.’

‘I had to be sure. You were madder than a wet hen yesterday.’

‘It was what I needed, a chance to blow off steam. I’ve been cooped up at home for weeks, just waiting. God, you men have no idea how boring it is just sitting about knitting booties.’

‘You can’t knit.’

‘Exactly! Is it any wonder I’ve been a pain in backside to live with. If I’d been Tony and some glamorous female had looked at me twice I’d have been panting like an eager puppy, too.’

Mac had been uneasy about confronting Adele. She was less than a month from delivery and had a temper like a volcano, a combination that was distinctly unsettling. But although Tony was undoubtedly in the doghouse, it was clearly more to impress on him the error of his ways than because she was still seriously angry. Although whether Tony was privilege to that information was open to question.

And he was somewhat disconcerted to discover that she found the whole incident at the airfield highly amusing. ‘Claudia Beaumont actually admitted choosing to hit your car rather than upset the television producer?’