A Flood of Sweet Fire Read online

  Sandra Marton

  A Flood of Sweet Fire

  And down his mouth comes to my mouth! and down

  His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood

  Upon my mind! his lips meet mine, and a flood

  Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown

  Against him, die, and find death good.

  (from LOVE ON THE FARM, by D.H. Lawrence.)

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE 747 banked gently as it dipped earthwards. Rome- the city of Caesars, the glory of a thousand-year empire-jay just below. Blair Nolan pressed her forehead to the milky porthole, trying to glimpse something through the cloud cover that had appeared along with the rising sun. It was really happening, she thought, and, then the excitement faded and trepidation took its place. It was her first trip to Italy. In fact, it was her first trip anywhere, but it might be her last. It might end in a Roman prison, or wherever it was they put people who travelled on false passports.

  Not false. Fraudulent. Well, perhaps not really fraudulent, but certainly illegal. The passport lying in the bottom "of Blair's handbag belonged to her employer, Meryl Desmond' just as the handbag itself belonged to Meryl. For that matter, so did the clothes she was wearing. Yesterday, she'd been Meryl's personal secretary, and today-today she was Meryl Desmond, heiress to the Desmond fortune, the girl who specialized in making madcap" headlines on two continents.

  How did I ever let you talk me into this, Meryl?

  But she knew how. The Meryl she'd come to know over the past four months was sweet and strong-willed. She'd come up with the scheme at the last minute, and talked Blair into it before she'd had time to do much thinking. She'd made it sound simple, clever and romantic. By the time Blair had realized just what she'd agreed to, it was too late.

  'You can't change your mind now, Blair,' Meryl had pleaded. 'It'll be a piece of cake, you'll see. Everyone will believe you're me.'

  And, so far, everyone had. The cabin attendants had all smiled and called her Miss Desmond. Even the captain had come back to greet her and wish her a pleasant flight. Of course, none of them knew Meryl personally. And none of them was a Customs inspector. None of them would look from Meryl's passport photo to Blair's face, trying to match Meryl's medium brown eyes with Blair's green-flecked ones, or Meryl's ash-brown hair with Blair's cinnamon-lit curls.

  'They won't try to match anything,' Meryl had said, laughing as if sneaking on to foreign soil with someone else's passport was everyday sport. 'Besides, people never really look like their passport photos, do they? And you'll be wearing glasses like mine and bangs like mine and .. .'

  'Yes, but .. .'

  'If you wear my stuff and change your hairstyle, we could pass for sisters. Stop worrying. All the Customs guy will see is a good-looking woman.' Meryl had grinned mischievously. 'This is Italy you're going to, Blair, the land of amore. Every male past the age of puberty thinks he's Casanova.'

  'Meryl, this is crazy!'

  'Sure it is. Haven't you ever done anything crazy before?'

  Not this crazy, Blair thought now, watching as the cloud cover parted and revealed glimpses of the eternal city. When you grew up on a farm in Iowa, the ward of an aunt and uncle who thought excitement began and ended with the annual State Fair, you didn't do much that was crazy or unusual. And even after you moved to Los Angeles, you were too busy keeping body and soul together to do anything even half-way crazy. Until one day you answered an ad and the interviewer turned out to be Meryl Desmond ...

  'Aren't we more than employer and employee, Blair?' Meryl had said just yesterday, when Blair suddenly balked at the thought of boarding the Alitalia plane. 'We're friends, right? And friends help each other out.' Meryl's voice had dropped to a cajoling whisper. 'You can carry it off. If you believe it, so will everybody else. Just keep thinking I'm Meryl, I'm Meryl ... It’ll work, you'll see.'

  'But... but...I should never have agreed to this, Meryl.

  Suppose somebody on the plane knows you? Suppose .. .' 'Nobody will,' Meryl had soothed. 'You're going to have a lovely flight. First class is usually half-empty. You'll drink champagne and eat lobster.'

  'I don't like lobster,' Blair had grumped as Meryl led her gently towards the departure lounge.

  'Then you'll eat saltimbocca alla romana,' Meryl had teased as she took Blair's sunglasses from her and plopped them on her own nose. 'Relax and enjoy it, Blair. Six hours of luxury, and then a ten-minute ride in Daddy's limousine .. .' ..

  'What about the chauffeur? He'll know I'm not you.

  He ...'

  'He's new,' Meryl had said gently. 'He'll think you're me, if you say you are. And before you know it, you'll be at the villa, and then I'll be there.'

  'Yes, but you .. .'

  Meryl had grinned. 'I'll be there five minutes later- the back of the plane lands the same time as the front. And I'll be with Perry, and I'll explain everything to Daddy.' Her pretty face had sobered. 'Just once in my life, I want to do things the right way. I mean, I love Perry, and I want Daddy to love him, too. I want him to meet Perry without any paparazzi hanging around, without any noise or fuss. We've escaped the photographers so far, thanks to you .. .' And Meryl had sighed dramatically. 'You've been wonderful, Blair. Perry and I couldn't have fallen in love without you.'

  Well, Blair had thought, looking from Meryl to the man she loved, that was a bit of an exaggeration. But the two shining faces before her shattered her resolve, and finally she'd sighed and said OK, she'd give it a try. And now, here she was, accepting Meryl's Louis Vuitton carry-on bag from the flight attendant, tucking Meryl's Gucci handbag under her arm, and leaving the plane.

  Ciao,' the flight attendant said, and Blair smiled.

  Goodbye,' she said, and then she took a deep breath and stepped into the corridor. Signs directing the way towards Passport Control seemed to leap from the wall every few paces, and finally her footsteps slowed. A short man carrying a garment bag bigger than himself elbowed past her.

  Scusi,' he muttered.

  Blair nodded as a woman clutching a squalling baby hurried past her, too. Go on, she thought, why don't you all get ahead of me? It's OK. But putting off the confrontation wouldn't really help. It would be just her luck to delay things long enough so that the tourist-class passengers engulfed her and she and Meryl ended up side by side, each clutching the other's passport! She had a sudden, nightmarish vision of a scowling Customs inspector looking from her employer's face to hers, trying to determine whose picture was attached to the passport that was even now becoming sweat-stained in Blair's hand.

  Actually, she had to admit Meryl might be right. They did resemble each other somewhat. They were almost the same age . Meryl was just past twenty-one and Blair had just celebrated her twenty-second birthday a few months ago. Both had brown hair and brown eyes.

  We can even wear the same clothes,' Meryl had insisted. 'Haven't we borrowed each other's things?'

  Yes and no, Blair thought grimly as she marched onwards. Meryl had never borrowed anything of hers. Why, would she, when Meryl's clothes were custom-made and' Blair's were straight off the rack? But Blair had worn Meryl's things before-once. It was right after Meryl and Perry met, and Meryl had announced they were head over heels in love and dying for some privacy. Blair had let Meryl talk her into luring the ever-present Los Angeles news hounds into following her from the house in Topanga Canyon to the glitzy stores on Rodep Drive

  , so that Meryl and Perry could sneak off for a quiet afternoon at the beach.

  Thank you, thank you,' Meryl had burbled that evening. 'That's the first time in my life lever managed to give those leeches the slip. Oh, if only I could keep things like that. I mean, if you think these Los Angeles paparazzi are bad, just wait till we ge
t to Italy!'

  And that had been the start of this whole hare-brained scheme, this disaster, this ...

  There it was. Customs. Blair's heart, already thudding loudly enough to sound in her ears, accelerated to a dizzying crescendo.

  'What if they find out?' Blair had demanded as they had climbed into a rented limousine for the trip to the airport.

  'All they'll do is wish the pretty signorina a pleasant stay in Rome,' Meryl had said patiently.

  'Suppose they don't? Suppose they arrest me? Suppose they lock me up? Suppose .. .'

  'I'm using your passport, Blair. And I'm not worried, am I?'

  'Answer the question,' Blair had insisted.

  “If anything goes wrong-which it won't-my father will send over a team of lawyers, and before you know it you'll be safe at his villa. Any other questions?'

  “Yes,' Blair had sighed.’Why do you employ a certifiable lunatic like me?'

  And Meryl had smiled and ruffled Blair's new hairdo, the one that made her look like Meryl.

  'You're not a lunatic,' she'd said gently. 'And I don't just employ you. You're my friend. And my companion. And a romantic.'

  The line shuffled forwards. Blair's breathing quickened. No matter what Meryl said, switching identities and passports was illegal. It wasn't, Meryl had insisted. They weren't doing it so they could smuggle jewels or drugs. That would have been illegal. If that rationalization had seemed flimsy back in Los Angeles, it seemed positively pathetic here. Blair could see the Customs inspector's face now, and he hardly looked the sort to believe she was anything but an impostor, and never mind these damned bangs that kept getting in her eyes and these tinted glasses that Meryl always wore and ...

  'Buon giorno, signorina. And how are you today?' Blair swallowed as she handed over her passport. 'Fi-fine,'she said. 'Just fine.'

  The man opened the blue booklet and stared at it.

  Blair's heart skipped erratically.

  'Signorina Desmond, hmm? And are you here for business or pleasure?'

  'PI-pleasure,' Blair stuttered.

  He looked up at her, his mouth unsmiling. 'And will you be staying in Roma or travelling?'

  'Oh, I'll be staying in Rome,' Blair said positively. If I can just get to the Desmond villa, I'll never move out of it ...

  The official beamed and snapped the passport closed. 'Bene, he said, handing it back to her with a flourish. 'Roma is always delighted to have beautiful women visit her. Enjoy your stay with us.'

  Laughter bloomed deep in Blair's chest and she fought it back. By God, Meryl had been right! There was nothing to it. It had been a piece of cake. And-now that it was over, she could admit it-it had been fun! She could hardly wait to tell Meryl how well it had gone. There was just one last hurdle, and that was nothing. She had to exit the terminal, let the photographers and reporters collect their pictures and stories, and then dive into the Desmond limousine. Unless she was lucky and -' there were no paparazzi waiting, but Meryl had snorted when she'd suggested that.

  'Don't be silly, Blair! Of course they'll be waiting.

  And they'll know it's you. I mean, they'll know it's me. Oh, you know what I mean. Somebody will have passed the word. One of the flight crew, maybe. Or an airline employee-there's nothing surer than that those worms will be there. They even spy on each other.'

  And there they were. The first was hurrying towards her across the terminal, cameras flying from his neck. God, it was amazing! They came out of nowhere. Meryl had warned her about it. the day she'd hired her as her secretary. The paparazzi hung around the homes of celebrities, she'd said, and around places where the wealthy and the famous collected. And some of them paid for tips, which was what Meryl had been counting on.

  'You're the bait,' she'd said cheerfully.

  And the fish were biting, Blair thought, watching from the corner of her eye as two more paparazzi began hurrying towards her. She took a deep breath and stepped through the doors to the street outside. God, it was hot! Meryl had warned her; summer in Italy, she'd said, was like summer under a heat lamp. Blair wished she were wearing her own dark sunglasses instead of Meryl's palely tinted ones. Dark lenses would have made her feel safer. She knew it was silly, but they'd have felt like something to hide behind.

  'Signorina-hey, Signorina Desmond; over here! Come on, give us a smile, eh? Signorina, per favore ...'

  The three men from the terminal had reached her side.

  And here came another--'-no, two others. Lord, the faces on those two! Scowling, unpleasant, they looked more like rejects from an American gangster film than paparazzi.

  'Miss Desmond, how about a statement? Are you '- really just visiting your father? We heard you might be meeting somebody .. .'

  There was a sudden nervous flutter in the pit of Blair's stomach. She'd never seen such determined looks before. For the first time, she realised how serious these reporters were. They might carry cameras and tape recorders, but these weren't games they were playing. They were earning their living, establishing their reputations. Meryl had told her horror stories about how far some paparazzi would go to get a picture or a story. They'd been known to chase their quarry by boat, by plane, even risk their lives-and drive the celebrities they were stalking into taking elaborate precautions to foil them.

  Blair forced back the sudden urge to shake her head and tell the gathering paparazzi the whole thing was a mistake, that the woman they really wanted was somewhere behind her, probably just claiming Blair's cheap suitcase from the luggage belt. Nothing was going to happen to her. All she had to do was look for the Desmond limousine and climb into it and ...

  'Hey, Signorina, come sta? Smile for the camera, eh?

  Over here, come on, per favore, un momento ...'

  She was surrounded now, like a sugar cube fought over by ants. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two scowling men she'd noticed earlier closing in from the side. The momentary prickle of fear came again and she shook it away. Where was the limo? She could see a line of cars ahead, but not a black Mercedes with a uniformed driver.

  'Buongiorno, Signorina Desmond. Per piacere, una fotografia!'

  A camera loomed into her face and she pulled back from its glassy stare.

  'Excuse me,' she murmured, hurrying around the woman holding it. 'Pardon me,' she said, hunching her shoulders. 'If you'd just let me .. .'

  Dear God, she thought, it was like a bad movie! There was so much confusion, so much noise a cacophony of voices were yelling at her in Italian and in English, and there were horns blaring everywhere. She felt as if she were choking, not just from the press of bodies, but from the smell of burning rubber and exhaust fumes. There seemed to be more traffic here than in LA, and she'd never dreamed that was possible. But the road was filled with vehicles. Small cars and big ones, taxis and motorcycles, all fighting for position.

  Someone jostled her from the rear-a hand holding a microphone zoomed in and jammed into her chin. 'Tell us about yourself, signorina,' a voice said. Blair pulled away from the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. Where in hell was the Mercedes? Meryl had said -ah, there it was, third in line, stuck behind a taxi being loaded with luggage, and a dusty Fiat that sat idling at the kerb. The driver's door was open; she could see the uniformed driver peering over the car and she waved frantically, knowing he was looking for her.

  'Here I am!' she called. 'It's me .. .'

  Someone jostled her again, hard, and she spun around angrily. 'Listen, will you watch that, please? I .. .' Her words tumbled to a halt. The two dark men from the terminal were shoving their way through the crowd of paparazzi, and there was definitely something about them that chilled her. They looked like the kind who would stop at nothing to get a story. She had no trouble

  imagining those two doing whatever they had to do to get an exclusive for a magazine.

  'Come on,' she muttered under her breath, turning back towards the road. 'Come on .. .' The limo had pulled out of line and was inching past the other cars, its horn blaring,
but its progress was slow. The Fiat had pulled away from the kerb, but it had stopped almost in the centre of the road, blocking everything behind it.

  A hand brushed her arm, and the smell of cheap wine and garlic filled her nostrils.

  'Signorina Desmond?'

  The voice was a snarling whisper. Blair knew, instinctively, that it belonged to one of the dark men. She pushed away from him and ran towards the road, signaling frantically to the Mercedes.

  'Here!' she called, 'I'm here .. .'

  Suddenly, the rear door of the Fiat sprang open. Blair glimpsed a moustachioed face staring out at her, and then hands grasped her arms and began hustling her towards the Fiat's dark, yawning interior.

  'Hey!' she said indignantly. 'Hey .. .'

  'Get in the car,' an accented voice growled, and once again the odour of wine and garlic assaulted her.

  'Are you crazy?' Blair said, digging her heels into the pavement. 'Let go of me!'