His Personal Agenda. Liz Fielding

a geisha, controlled, exquisitely graceful, and for just a moment his body seemed to do a loop-the-loop as he imagined what that hand could do to him. ‘I’m about to enlighten you, so save your questions until after the show.’

      There was a murmur of laughter as the light dimmed until there was just a small shaded lamp over the notes on the lectern, the powerful beam from the projector directing all eyes to the screen with its aerial view of the small market town of Delvering.

      As if this was a prearranged signal, several people leapt to their feet in the darkness. There was an angry yell that turned into a cry of pain from the man standing by the projector as it was overturned, hitting the floor was a crash that blew the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

      The heavies. He didn’t have to see them to know. He’d recognised them for what they were, despite their suits and their careful interest in Nyssa Blake’s work, and he’d assumed they were minders. He’d been wrong.

      And there was one right in front of the lectern.

      Without pausing to consider the wisdom of his actions, Matt Crosby hurled himself towards the shaded light that illuminated nothing but Nyssa Blake’s small hands, frozen in the act of turning over the first page of her notes.