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‘Oh.’ Aware of his shrewd eyes on her face, Rosalind tried not to reveal any of her turmoil as she probed warily, ‘Olivia told you about that?’
She couldn’t help a trace of outrage creeping into her voice, although, come to think of it, she had only asked that her twin not tell their parents, or their over-protective brothers.
‘We are married, Roz,’ said Jordan drily, effortlessly picking up the nuances. ‘That’s what marriage is all about—sharing a life, listening to each other’s secrets and worries. Olivia said you tried to treat it as a joke but the mere fact that you brought the subject up made her think you were a lot more concerned than you let on, and the tenor of some of the guy’s letters disturbed her. She thought they could be interpreted as stalking letters, said that he wrote as if he believed he had a personal relationship with you, one that gave him some sort of a claim on you...’
‘I told her I get lots of fans writing to me off and on—’
‘But this Peter is very persistent, Olivia said. You told her it had been going on for several years, and that lately he’d escalated from an occasional letter to one or two a week, never with a full name or a return address. He boasts of going to extraordinary lengths to see your performances and even claims to have met you several times at public appearances, though he apparently never identified himself.
‘Olivia said she didn’t like the obsessive nature of his interest, especially as he knows where you live. She said you had extra locks fitted at your apartment because you were uneasy when he started sending gifts as well as letters. She also thought that one of the reasons you took that film job in such a hurry was because you hoped he might lose interest if you weren’t performing live any more...’
‘Well, it was better than her idea of involving the police,’ Rosalind muttered, shuddering at the thought. ‘They probably would have laughed in my face...there was nothing in the letters that was overtly threatening. Anyway, I’ve thrown most of them away,’ she said truthfully, hoping that would put paid to the subject. ‘As I told Olivia, the best way to handle these things is to ignore them.’
‘Mmm.’ Jordan’s face was sceptical. Rosalind had the sinking feeling that she had just acquired another over-protective relative.
‘Nothing arrived while I was away,’ she pointed out. ‘Maybe he’s finally given up.’
‘And another sudden sojourn out of the country might be the perfect way to discourage him even further,’ Jordan said smoothly. ‘It’s either that or the police, Roz—or I could get someone from the Pendragon Corporation’s security section to provide you with personal protection while a private investigator tracks this guy down and turns him inside out.’
Rosalind blanched at the implications. ‘Me, with a bodyguard? God, can you imagine what the Press would make of that?’ She threw up her hands, hastily conceding defeat. ‘You’re something of a pirate, aren’t you, Jordan? I suppose if I don’t allow myself to be blackmailed into going I’ll find myself shanghaied...’
‘There’s little I wouldn’t do to ensure Olivia’s wellbeing,’ he agreed blandly, but with irrefutable honesty.
‘Oh, all right!’ At least he was allowing her to save face by pretending that she was doing this for her sister’s sake, rather than her own. ‘If I’m going to be shanghaied, I suppose I may as well make the most of it.’ She grinned, her eternal optimism fizzing back to the surface. ‘I might even find my own form of protection. Who knows? I might run into my beau idéal in paradise, a man “gentle, strong and valiant” who’ll romance me under the tropical stars and pledge his heart to me for ever! Or, failing that, I’ll settle for a gorgeously tanned beach boy who can make me laugh!’
CHAPTER TWO
ROSALIND stood impatiently tapping her scuffed cowboy boot as she watched the man dithering at the check-in counter.
He was tall and thin, his thick, straight, mid-brown hair flopping over his forehead as he bent over to attach the tags to his two suitcases with fumbling fingers. He had a distracted, disorganised air that had Rosalind immediately pegging him as some sort of head-in-the-clouds academic, one of those people who were sheltered by their narrowly focused intellects from the real world—or perhaps he was a computer nerd, she thought as she noted the laptop he was carefully guarding between his feet. The jacket of his dark pin-striped suit fell open as he leaned forward and she saw the pens and folded spectacles tucked into the breast pocket of his white shirt. Ah, definitely a nerd!
Whoever he was, he was holding her up. Didn’t he realise that first-class passengers didn’t expect to have to queue? They were supposed to breeze in and out while staring down their noses at the lesser mortals lining up at the parallel desks.
She glanced around the terminal. She was anxious to be out of the public arena and into the relative privacy of the first-class lounge as soon as possible. She had got this far without being spotted, by dressing in androgynous jeans, baggy shirt and denim jacket and shaggy blonde wing à la Rod Stewart under a dark fedora.
She had swopped places with Olivia the previous night and knew her regular pursuers were being well and truly led off on the wrong trail, but news organisations often employed stringers or informants at airports. In her boyish guise she hoped that no one would give her a second look, but the longer she stood around, the greater the risk of being accidentally rumbled before she boarded her seventeen-hour flight to Singapore.
The check-in clerk pointed at the weighing machine beside her desk but instead of obeying her polite instruction the man leaned forward to mumble something, patting absently at his pockets.
Rosalind’s impatience burst its bounds. Stepping around a polite Japanese couple, she tapped the laggard briskly on the shoulder, lowering her naturally throaty voice an extra notch.
‘Hey, mate, she’s asking you to put your luggage onto the weighing machine.’
‘What?’ The man turned his head and his body followed, straightening
with an uncoordinated jerk that caused him to almost fall over his laptop. Colour streaked across his high cheekbones as Rosalind snickered.
He was younger than his fussy mannerisms had led her to expect—about her own age, Rosalind guessed. His dark olive skin was unlined, and as he raked back his fine, straight hair with well-kept fingers he revealed an exaggerated widow’s peak bisecting a smooth, deep brow. His face was narrow, his steeply slanting dark eyebrows peaking to sharp commas just beyond the outer corners of his eyes, giving his expression a strikingly devilish cast. However, the look in his dark brown eyes was anything but satanic. They were wildly dilated, watching with blank consternation as Rosalind snatched up one of his bags and plonked it onto the platform.
‘She can’t process you until you weigh your luggage,’ Roz told him, her own eyes shooting impatient green sparks at him from under the brim of her hat as he made no attempt to follow her example. He was certainly slow on the uptake. If it hadn’t been for that computer she would have thought he was two bricks short of a load. Or maybe he was simply foreign, and didn’t understand what was being asked of him.
He cleared his throat. ‘Uh...I didn’t think weight mattered for first-class passengers...’ he murmured vaguely, his mild New Zealand accent immediately shattering her theory.
Rosalind’s impatience drained away to be replaced by amused condescension. He was obviously a complete greenhorn.
‘The airline still has to know what total weight the plane is carrying,’ she pointed out. ‘If you’re packing elephants with your underwear they might have to shed a few economy passengers to accommodate your eccentricity.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he muttered, not a glimmer of a smile touching his narrow mouth. She might have known he’d have no sense of humour. He continued to stare at her with the glazed abstraction of a man whose brain was temporarily otherwise engaged. To Rosalind, used to provoking sharp male awareness of her femininity, his lack of reaction was further proof of the effectiveness of her simple disguise. There were quite a few Shakespearian heroines who disguised themselves as boys, and Rosalind had played most of them with great gusto. She knew that gender confusion was largely a matter of body language.
