Exposed Page 3

  Slinging her camera around her neck, and throwing the bag containing her flash and telephoto lens over her shoulder, she picked up her suitcase and started walking. Trudging uphill, she felt the heat rising from the baking pavement beneath, her feet burning with every step. Sweeping strands of long hair away from her clammy forehead, Nicky could feel herself beginning to melt beneath the afternoon sun.

  She stopped to evaluate the outfit she’d changed into back at her apartment, hoping for a more professional look. Gazing down, she checked over her blue blazer and the short matching skirt. The blazer was simply too hot for these conditions. She only had a skimpy white eyelet camisole on underneath, but there was obviously no one around to see.

  Giving in to the heat, she shed her blazer and wound it around her waist. Then she took in the green valley stretched out before her, scanning the horizon for rooftops. But only a few lakes sparkled back at her, reminding her of the tropical surf she was already missing.

  Nicky grimaced. Now what? she wondered, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. The way this was going, she could walk the rest of the day and still not get anywhere.

  Just then something caught her attention. Turning, she saw a most welcome sight. An antique car—all black and flashing in the sun—was heading in her direction. Then she heard its horn squawking at her in friendly little bursts.

  “Stop! Please stop!” she screamed, throwing her arms over her head in large, desperate waves.

  The car slowed as it approached, finally coming to a grinding halt. A man wearing a dirty cap and dark sunglasses leaned across the seat towards her, his skin hardly discernible under a film of grease and oil. “Hello there! You look like you might be lost.”

  She nodded, trying to catch her breath. “My car broke down about a mile back.”

  “Oh yes. I think I saw it. A red Honda?” he asked, leaning one arm over the steering wheel and stretching the other across the back of the seat towards her.

  Nicky took a good long look at the man’s soiled face, wondering whether she could trust him. What if she got into his car and was never seen or heard of again? It was possible. There didn’t seem to be very many people around who could help her if she needed saving. Which was a good enough reason to take a ride with him, she considered. It might be hours before anyone else came along. Besides, he looked harmless enough.

  “Where are you headed, Mrs.—?”

  “It’s Miss—Evans. Nicola… Nicky, I mean,” she said distractedly. She was preoccupied with analyzing the man’s appearance, looking for signs of trustworthiness. She noticed he had on a pair of overalls—the kind her father used to wear.

  Her dad had been a mechanic all his life, and he’d worn denim overalls day in and day out, a fact that had been a sore spot with her mother. But for Nicky now, somehow that dirty outfit was a reassuring sight. She pulled down on the old-fashioned handle and opened the door.

  “Do you know the Anderson place?” she asked, still standing outside. She couldn’t see his eyes through the dark shades, but she could feel his gaze scrutinizing her just the same.

  “Yes, I believe I do know it,” he responded, shifting his attention to the road ahead. “In fact, I’m heading that direction if you want to hop in,” he said brightly.

  She thanked the man before scrambling onto the cool leather seat, pulling the heavy door shut after her. “Wow, these old cars are pretty solid.”

  He chuckled as he put the car in gear and let out the clutch. “A lot more solid than that little car of yours. And in better condition too, I can tell you.”

  Nicky frowned at the man. Her car had served her well over the past two years. But she kept quiet, realizing he was doing her a favor.

  “Unfortunately, quality seems to be getting worse these days instead of better. And that goes for people as well as things,” the man added.

  Nicky nodded in agreement, thankful to be riding instead of walking, even if they were only going thirty miles an hour.

  “So, you’re a tourist, I presume?” he asked, sending another quick glimpse in her direction.

  She had to suppress an urge to laugh. “No. What makes you say that?”

  He nodded to her camera and the bag slung over her shoulder. “What’s all that stuff?”

  “Oh, I guess it looks that way. But actually, I’m working.”

  “Working?” he echoed, and she noticed there was a note of doubt in his voice.

  She couldn’t blame him for not believing her, considering what she must look like with her skin clammy, her hair windblown, not to mention her bare shoulders and legs. She probably looked more ready for the beach than a work assignment. “No, really, I am.”

  “A tourist?”

  “No, I mean I’m not,” she corrected, furrowing her brow. She was beginning to feel frustrated with this stilted conversation. All she wanted to do was hop into a cool shower and then go to work. At this rate, she’d never get the job done. “Can’t you make this old clunker of a car move a bit faster?”

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Evans, but I will not have you referring to this beauty as an old clunker. I don’t appreciate it, and I can tell you the owner would like such a comment even less. Besides, it’s going a fair bit quicker than that red Honda I passed earlier.”

  Nicky pressed her lips together, sorry she’d let her temper flare. Her mother had always blamed her quick temper on her red hair—a feature she’d inherited from her father’s side of the family.

  Then she remembered something. The owner, he’d said. Who owned the car, if not him?

  “Well, here you are, Miss Evans. Welcome to the Anderson estate, fondly referred to as Lindenfield around these parts,” he explained matter-of-factly, steering the car into a private lane.

  Nicky looked around, unable to believe she’d been so close to her destination. Another fifteen minutes and she would have made it on foot.

  They drove along the pebbled driveway that cut through manicured trees and shrubbery. The entrance looked like an endless garden, the grounds carpeted with bright green lawn and flowerbeds. A middle-aged woman wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat and gardening gloves was busy pruning a long line of rosebushes. As they wound around the curving lane, Nicky finally saw the mansion itself rising in front of her, its enormous windows and ivy-covered stone reminding her of a castle. Something out of one of those old, romantic novels, she thought wistfully.

  “I’ll let you off here,” the man said, pulling up to the grand main entrance.

  Nicky pushed open the door and let herself out onto the smooth cobblestones beneath. She wanted to thank the man for the ride and also apologize for being so rude earlier. “You seem to know your way around here quite well,” she began with a smile, closing the car door and peering at him through the open window.

  “Well, I should,” he answered gruffly, not about to accept her belated kindness. “You see, Miss Evans, I live here.” Then, turning his attention back to the driveway in front of him, he drove on.

  Of course! Nicky thought, shaking her head as she watched the old car disappear around the back. Why didn’t she think of it before? He was probably the estate mechanic, possibly also the chauffeur.

  It made sense. Matthew Anderson probably had a whole fleet of vintage cars that he collected just for fun, and no doubt he’d need someone to keep them all running. He would certainly have someone hired to drive him around. And she’d been rude to him. Well, there was no turning back now.

  She tried to bring her thoughts back to the task at hand as she stepped up to the front door. Soon she’d be able to confirm whatever suspicions she had about Matthew Anderson. Somewhere on the other side of this grand entrance lay the man himself. And just the thought of meeting him face-to-face was sending a rush of electric energy through her veins.

  Nicky was about to ring the bell when she caught sight of her disheveled appearance in the glass pane of the door. Quickly, she slipped her blazer back on and took out the compact from her bag. Her cheeks were flushed fr
om the heat, her hair was a mass of waves from the humidity, and her eyes were too bright—too full of anticipation. She looked like a wild woman with a suit on.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. Holding up her compact, she put on a little lipstick and powder, hoping to tone down her look. But it did little to camouflage the heat still radiating off her skin. Did she look like a professional magazine photographer/columnist? Probably not, she decided, running a hand over her thick mane.

  Oh well, it’ll have to do, she thought, grimacing into the tiny mirror in her hand. It’ll just have to do.

  * * * * *

  Matt parked the car around the back and tore through the servant’s quarters, unhooking the straps of his overalls as he went. Bounding up the stairs toward the second floor, he nearly knocked over Frank, the butler, who was on his way down.

  “Oh, excuse me, Frank. I didn’t see you there,” he mumbled, shedding the bib of his overalls and the white cotton T-shirt underneath.

  “I gathered that. Don’t often see you looking so disheveled, Matt. What’s up?” the jovial older man asked.

  “I’m kind of in a hurry,” Matt replied, realizing he’d somehow managed to get the zipper stuck halfway down the side of his overalls. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”

  With Frank yanking at his pant legs, Matt finally managed to wiggle the greasy overalls over his slim hips, leaving him standing in a pair of crisp white boxers and nothing else.

  “Thanks, Frank,” he said sincerely, not at all embarrassed by his near nakedness. “And oh, would you mind going down and answering the door?”

  “That’s funny, I didn’t hear the doorbell. Am I’m losing my hearing now, too?”

  Matt laughed. “You didn’t hear the doorbell because it hasn’t rung yet. But at any moment a photographer by the name of Miss Nicola Evans will make her presence known. Now, if you’ll just excuse me…don’t want to be caught with my pants down,” he said, skipping up the remaining steps and leaving Frank standing on the stairs with a bewildered look on his face.

  Matt stuffed the overalls and T-shirt into the second-floor laundry and walked into the nearest bathroom. Just then he heard the doorbell ring, followed by Frank’s bemused chuckle as he went to answer it.

  Matt stuck his head out into the hallway. “Tell Miss Evans I’ll be right down,” he called, grabbing a towel and a bar of soap. With a small sigh, he began the arduous task of wiping the grease from his face.

  Looking at himself in the mirror, Matt knew why the photographer hadn’t recognized him. That old Model A was fairly messy underneath, which was where he’d spent most of the morning. After a string of long days at the office, he’d figured a day off was in order. Not to mention the fact that he was expecting the arrival of an important visitor this afternoon. A woman who wanted to feature Lindenfield in some travel magazine or other.

  Matt smiled to himself. Of course, he knew what was going on. There had been that strange call yesterday morning at his office—a gruff voice asking permission to send someone to photograph the family estate.

  Oh, the man had been good all right. He was convincing enough, but he’d made one serious error. Saying that Mrs. Anderson had already approved the idea had tipped Matt off. From then on, he was sure it wasn’t a magazine at all, but his meddling mother who was behind all of this.

  He knew her only too well. Never in a million years would Eleanor Anderson agree to allow prying, scrutinizing people into the family mansion. No, she wouldn’t have given permission to show off the estate in a magazine. Unless, of course, it was her idea in the first place. Not to expose Lindenfield, but to expose him.

  Matt cupped his hands and scooped up some cool water to splash the soap from his face. He was finally starting to look half-human again. He’d certainly fooled Nicky Evans into thinking he was some kind of hired employee.

  Normally, of course, he wouldn’t have bothered with such games. He’d simply have told her to turn around and make her way back to Boston. He would have let her know what was what, thereby foiling his mother’s scheme to pry into his personal life.

  Matt grinned at himself in the mirror. Yes, normally he would stop his mother’s meddling right at the beginning—send her private eye running back to Boston, tail between the legs. But this time he couldn’t help noticing how terribly attractive this particular tail was.

  Nicola Evans. Nicky, she’d said. Nice name too.

  Her flustered state when he’d found her by the side of the road was nothing if not endearing. And then there was the way she’d shed her business suit in the afternoon heat, revealing more than he would have probably seen had he met her in other circumstances.

  Matt went over the details of Nicky Evans’ body in his mind. There was that wild red hair of hers, and those eyes—eyes that reminded him of a tiger ready to pounce. And he could still picture those soft, bare shoulders weighed down by all that equipment. Then there was the top she’d been wearing—more like lingerie than clothing—allowing him to get a glimpse of what was underneath—two firm, ripe breasts that looked as if they were ready to burst the constraints of that thin white eyelet. Finally, he couldn’t have missed those long, sexy sun-kissed legs of hers. Legs that could wrap easily around him.

  Matt smiled to himself as he dressed. He hadn’t missed a thing, and so far there wasn’t a thing about Nicky Evans he didn’t like. At least, not on the physical plane. And the way she’d snapped at him told him she had a fiery, passionate personality to go along with all that red hair of hers. Fiery and passionate in bed too, he’d bet his life on it.

  Matt combed back his short, dark brown hair, and stepped into the hallway. Of course, he had to remember the fact that Nicky wasn’t here for him, but for his mother. And as he descended the stairs, he thought back to all the times Eleanor had had him tailed.

  But that had been a long time ago, when he was young and foolish. Back in high school and college, when she’d lost all control over him. Sure, he’d had a few rebellious years. He’d needed some time to explore, to enjoy life, and to educate himself in more than just academic subjects. Women, he’d soon discovered, provided him with a whole new, rich field of research. And who could fault him for indulging a little when they liked what he had to offer? Didn’t every red-blooded American boy crave such experiences?

  But now, at age thirty-two, he’d have thought his mother would learn to trust him. Okay, so he didn’t have a girl lined up for the altar yet, as his father had wished. His father…

  Whenever he thought about him, Matt always marveled at that ludicrous clause he’d made in his will. Of course, Matt knew why he’d done it. He was simply afraid his son would never grow out of the carefree, playboy lifestyle he’d fallen into. Matt shook his head as he reached the bottom of the staircase. Now it seemed he was suffering the consequences for that brief phase of his life. If only his father were still around. Then Matt could tell him why he wasn’t married yet. He could explain how every woman he’d ever dated saw him as a good catch, and nothing more.

  The women he seemed to meet were only interested in the things that went along with marrying him. The money, the luxury of living in the family mansion, the trips, the attention—there was a whole range of fringe benefits that came with becoming Matthew Anderson’s wife.

  If only he could explain to his father that not one of the women he’d seriously considered ever took him seriously. They’d never really loved him, Matt Anderson, minus the money and carefree lifestyle. Of course, he’d never fallen in love with any of them either. So what was he supposed to do? Just marry someone in order to hang onto a position that was rightfully his to begin with?

  That was exactly his mother’s suggestion, though she’d made it very clear what kind of woman he should choose. And unfortunately, according to his father’s will, she did have a say in who he married. Eleanor had to give her approval.

  “A girl from a good family,” she’d told him in a shrewd tone, “won’t want you for your money. Sh
e’ll already have enough of her own.”

  But that’s where she was wrong. Women like that were often so spoiled, they wanted even more than what they had. And the ones she had introduced him to were so in love with themselves, they weren’t even capable of caring for anyone else.

  Anyway, whatever happened to marrying for love—for good, old-fashioned passion? Somewhere along the way that concept had gotten tossed out the window. Perhaps because his mother and father had been joined together more by rational thought than anything their hearts—or their bodies—had wanted. Which was precisely why Matt found himself determined to do the opposite.

  Having grown up witnessing the calculated marriage of his parents, he had decided long ago to marry for love, or not at all. Which was starting to make the whole situation look rather desperate. Where was he going to find mutual passion in the next four weeks?

  “Mr. Anderson, your visitor is here,” Frank called from the foyer. He always addressed his employer properly in front of company, despite Matt’s objections. He really couldn’t be bothered with such pompous formalities in his own home.

  “Coming,” he answered, sauntering through the hallway toward Frank and the lone figure standing beside him.

  “Well!” Frank said, looking a little baffled as his gaze shifted from Matt to Nicky and back again. “I understand you two already know each other, so there’s no need for introductions.”

  Nicky’s wide green eyes lit up with embarrassed confusion as her gaze sought Matt’s. “What? I mean, no, I’ve never met Mr. Ander…”

  Matt watched her mouth drop open, enjoying every second of her gradual realization.