Page 8 of Out of Control

'What?'

His eyes opened wide at the aggression in the question. Sorry, did I hit on a sore point? It doesn't matter if you're not, because I am! I spent a year at the North Pole when I was just out of university, and one of my jobs was cooking for the whole team.'

'Team?' Liza's nerves had steadied and her colour had come back.

'I was out there with the British Expedition. I was supposed to be doing research into human reaction to the pressure of loneliness and danger, but it was mainly fun. h was one of those special years; I learnt a lot about myself and I suppose about other people, too.' He was gathering up tins of soup, tomatoes, a packet of spaghetti. 'Show me where everything is,' he said, emerging into the kitchen with his arms full. 'Saucepans, plates, cutlery?'

Are you a doctor?' Liza said uncertainly, trying to work out a little more about him, while she opened cupboards and showed him where she kept everything.

'No, I'd studied psychology at university, though,' he lol.l her, dumping the tins and packets on the kitchen i a hie, and surveying the room with narrow eyes. 'You're v.iy tidy, everything in its place, I see.' His tone approved and she lifted her sleek blonde head, her eyes Hashing.

Thank you,' she said tartly. 'I'm so glad.'

He stood watching her, his smile ironic. 'And what do vou do, Liza?' He let his eyes wander down over her, from her immaculate features and the slender lines of her body in a Bond Street dress down to her long, shapely legs and the hand-made Italian shoes she wore. 'One thing's certain, you aren't short of money! Do you earn it or . . .'

'I earn it!' Liza interrupted sharply, afraid of what he

might have been going to suggest. From the way he had looked her over she suspected that he might have thought she was kept by a wealthy father or boyfriend. Hadn't he sneered some such comment earlier? 'I run an agency in London,' she added. 'What sort of agency?'

She didn't want to tell him, she didn't want him to find out too much about her, which made it very difficult because at the same time she wanted to probe his background as much as she could because she found him a little overpowering. He was a formidable man; whatever he did for a living she was certain he was accustomed to authority. Even in his shabby, well worn cords and that olive-green sweater he had a distinct air of assurance. He had taken off the muddy wellies and was just wearing socks, she suddenly realised. That ought to make him more approachable, but it didn't because he was too tall, too tough-looking. If he wasn't a farmer, he could be a thug, Liza thought grimly. Look at those shoulders, that height!

She talked rapidly to change the subject. 'What can I do to help with the cooking? I do know my way around this kitchen, after all, and I usually cook for myself. Sorry if I gave the impression that I couldn't cook. Shall I open the tin of soup? Are we starting with that while whatever else you planned is cooking?'

'I cook my whole meal in one pan,' he said. 'It saves on washing up.'

It sounded simply disgusting and Liza glanced at the tins and packets, her brows rising. 'Really?'

He laughed. 'Wait and see. You'll like it!'

She did; much to her own surprise. She wasn't sure what to call it, but it tasted great: something like a hearty minestrone stew, thick with spaghetti strands, rich with tomato and beef. She had never tasted anything like it, but it was certainly filling and delicious. She congratu­lated him.

'I'm glad you enjoyed it,' he said, smiling, and for the first time Liza saw a flash of charm in his hard fac

e. An involuntary answering smile lit her own features, and she offered to do the washing up alone.

He didn't argue. 'OK, and I'll make us some coffee.'

There wasn't much washing up to do, owing to his economical way of cooking, and by the time Liza had restored the kitchen to its normal tidiness he had made coffee and laid a tray which he carried into the sitting-room.

She joined him and found him stretched out on the sofa, his hands linked behind his head and his slim body relaxed. The room was much warmer now, he had taken off his olive-green sweater and was yawning.

'Sorry,' he said, sitting up as she appeared. 'Fresh air and good food, I'm afraid—I'm half asleep already. I'm used to early nights.'

Liza looked at her watch and was taken aback to find (hat it was nearly nine o'clock.

'I'll find you a pillow and some blankets,' she said, turning, but he caught her wrist, his hand clamping it in .m iron grip.

'After you've had your coffee!'

Liza glanced down at her trapped wrist, then up at his insistent face. 'You're hurting!' she said tersely and he released her.

'Sorry.' He turned and began to pour her coffee. 'Sit down by the fire,' he ordered, as though this was his house and he was her host, and she slowly obeyed, hustling a little at the commanding tone.

She was not going to sit on the sofa, however, or anywhere near him, so she chose a chair on the other side of the fire, taking her cup of coffee with her and nursing it on her lap as some sort of barrier against him. If he tried anything, she could always chuck the boiling hot coffee at him!

'You know, I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before,' he said thoughtfully, staring, and her nerves prickled. 'What sort of agency did you say you ran?'

'A modelling agency,' she reluctantly admitted, be­cause she could see that he was the persistent type. He wouldn't forget to ask again if she changed the subject this time.

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