Читать книгу Fast And Loose - Elizabeth Oldfield - Страница 6

DARCY frowned at the young man who sat on the other side of the low mahogany table. ‘I was stood in the lobby waiting for you for almost half an hour,’ she told him.

‘Sorry. Had trouble finding a taxi,’ Maurice Cantwell declared, fingering the apricot and white spotted bowtie which he wore with a pale apricot sharkskin suit. ‘Though you could’ve waited in here.’

‘But if I’d sat immobile where people can take their time and look someone might’ve recognised me,’ she protested.

‘So? Other actresses like to be recognised. Other actresses …’ His words dried as he looked beyond her to the entrance of the oak-panelled bar. ‘Hi, there!’ he called, waving an eager hand. ‘We’re over here.’

As her agent put down his cocktail and leapt to his feet in readiness to greet someone whom he had clearly expected Darcy’s lips compressed. She had thought his invitation to dinner at the Brierly Hotel was odd, but— dumbo!—she ought to have guessed that it might not necessarily be just the two of them.

Maurice had his fingers thrust into endless pies, and now it seemed that he might be attempting to swing one of the deals which he habitually indulged in and that she had been asked along as feminine decoration and some form of inducement. While the refined and dignified Brierly had been chosen as the venue in order to impress.

Darcy gritted her teeth. Sitting with her back to the door, she was unable to see who was approaching, but she refused to spend the evening making small talk with some impresario for Maurice’s benefit. She refused to be exploited.

Her agent took a step past her to welcome the new arrival. ‘Great to have a chance to meet you at last,’ he said in what, for him, were surprisingly sincere, reverential tones. ‘I’m a big admirer of both your acting and directing skills, though it’s a long time now since you’ve acted.’

‘As I get older I find I prefer to tell others what to do, rather than be told myself,’ replied a man in a smoky American drawl laced with an ironic inflexion.

Darcy froze. She was sure—almost—that she recognised the voice. Whipping her head round, she looked up. Her green eyes flew wide open. Her jaw dropped. Her mind seemed to implode. Towering above her was a tall figure—a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and utterly virile figure. The expected dinner guest was a man whom she had last seen seven years ago and whom she had never wanted to see again—Keir Robards!

She gawked at him. Like her agent’s dress style, his was also different from that of the hotel’s other, conservatively suited male customers, but whereas Maurice had gone for overkill he had opted for understatement. He wore cowboy boots, faded denims and an ancient black blazer thrown over a dark blue poplin shirt. His appearance was casual yet somehow he contrived to look smarter than every other man in the bar.

‘You two know each other,’ Maurice announced, with the gleeful air of a television host who—surprise, surprise—was bringing together a pair of old, dear, but long-lost friends.

Realising that she was still gawking, Darcy closed her mouth. She wanted to murder Maurice.

‘We did,’ she said, tautly placing their relationship in the past—where she intended it to remain.

‘Good evening, Darcy,’ Keir Robards said, and held down a large, tanned hand.

His handclasp came accompanied by a smile—a slow, crooked smile which, once upon a time, would have had her crumbling into a pathetically adoring heap. But no longer. Darcy nodded, withdrew her hand, sat back and crossed long, black-stockinged legs. Seven years on she was made of sterner stuff.

Nevertheless, the pressure of his fingers and the feel of his skin against hers had had an annoyingly sensitising effect. It made her aware of the way some physical contact, however mundane, could start the adrenalin spurting. It had also created a tension.

‘What are you doing here?’ she enquired, attempting to appear nonchalant and unconcerned but hearing herself sound dyspeptic.

Although Keir Robards had been consigned to history and she had not thought about him for…oh, ages, as she had waited in the lobby memories had relentlessly surfaced—of the last time she had visited the hotel, which had been the time of their final encounter, when she had made a monumental fool of herself.

Then, with her cheeks a feverish raspberry and her nerves twanging like crazed harp strings, she had dashed from his bedroom, hurled herself between the closing doors of a most obligingly placed lift and, on reaching ground level, had galloped across the lobby and out into the night.

Darcy sipped from her glass of sparkling water. The memory still made her squirm. And now, after intruding so discomfitingly into her consciousness earlier, for Keir Robards to appear in person was a bizarre coincidence—one which tempted her to make another hasty exit. But was he involved in a deal with Maurice? His elegant calm made a stark contrast to her agent’s ponytailed flamboyance, yet she supposed it was possible.

‘I’m staying at the hotel. I’ve been in London on business,’ he told her, ‘just for a couple of days. I fly back to the States tomorrow.’

‘Busy guy,’ Maurice murmured approvingly. ‘Sit down, sit down. Take my seat,’ he insisted when Keir looked around to draw up a chair. ‘You must have a drink,’ he said, and, after establishing his guest’s preference, he rapidly organised a gin and tonic. ‘I was on the point of telling Darcy about the new situation.’

Keir shot her a look. ‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what?’ Darcy asked in bewilderment. She frowned up at Maurice. ‘Would you kindly tell me what it is you’re talking about?’

‘The play,’ he said.

In a month’s time she was due to fly to the States to start rehearsing the female lead in a new, hard-hitting emotional drama which, after two weeks of previews in Washington, would premiere with much fanfare on Broadway. Darcy felt a trickle of alarm. She had thought everything was cut and dried, but there had, it seemed, been changes. Yet how could this have anything to do with Keir Robards?

‘There’s bad news—and good news,’ Maurice went on.

‘What’s the bad news?’ she enquired, thinking that it was always better to confront that first.

‘Bill Shapiro’s been forced to withdraw.’

‘Oh, no!’ Darcy exclaimed in dismay. ‘Why?’

‘He’s had a quadruple heart bypass which means he’ll be out of the scene for three months min. Poor Bill,’ the young man said, more automatically than sympathetically. ‘But the good news is…’ he paused to beam down at the American ‘…Keir’s come to the rescue.’

Darcy’s tension tightened as if turned by a ratchet. Her heart kicked behind her ribs. ‘You’ve—you’ve taken over as director?’ she faltered, struggling desperately up from the cocooning depths of her maroon velvet armchair.

Keir nodded. ‘I have.’

She perched, ramrod-stiff, on the edge of the chair. ‘But——’ she started to bleat.

‘I knew you’d be thrilled,’ Maurice declared, and gave a loud guffaw of satisfaction which boomeranged around the bar. In a lesser establishment it would have raised eyebrows and swivelled heads but the Brierly’s clientele were too well-bred to react.

‘“Thrilled” appears to be something of an exaggeration,’ Keir murmured, watching her, then looked up as a bell-boy in a grey brass-buttoned uniform appeared between the tables, holding aloft a board on which was written ‘Telephone for Mr Robards’. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, rising, and, with a word to the youth, he strode out to take his call at one of the telephones that were discreetly sited on the far side of the lobby.

‘We were both happy with Bill Shapiro directing,’ Maurice said hastily. ‘Though, let’s face it, as the play is your dream ticket to stardom we’d have been happy to go along with most any director unless he was a real doggo. Robards isn’t a doggo; he’s the crème de la crème.’

Darcy frowned down into the cut-crystal tumbler of sparkling mineral water which she suddenly realised she was holding in her fingers. Holding tight. Very tight. Stardom did not bother her—what mattered was her wonderfully challenging role. The observation that there were few meaty parts for actresses might have been a cliché, yet, as cliches often did, it contained much truth, and she had been savouring the prospect of getting to grips. But now…

‘I don’t want to work with him,’ she said.

Maurice affected a look of frog-eyed surprise. ‘Why ever not?’

Darcy had two reasons. Valid reasons. What she had come to think of as the bedroom incident was the first, though no one knew about that—praise be—but the second reason, and by far the more important, lived in the public domain—at least a part of it did. A line cut between her brows. However, the real source of her hostility, the crucial, damning factor, remained a secret, locked away at the back of her mind. It was a secret which, after much agonising, she had learned to live with.

Darcy sat back. ‘You know why not,’ she said impatiently.

‘You can’t be bothered about that episode between Robards and Rupert all those years ago?’ the young man protested as though—gee whizz!—the thought had only just occurred to him. He dropped down into the empty chair. ‘Come on, kiddo, artistic differences happen. They’re an occupational hazard and nothing to get uptight about.’

Her chin lifted. ‘My father feeling forced to withdraw from a production for the first and only time in an illustrious forty-year career just happened?’ Darcy enquired, a glacial edge to her voice. ‘Keir Robards was an innocent bystander?’

‘Look, Rupert was in his sixties, and taking instruction from a guy of under thirty who at that point had only directed on a couple of occasions could’ve seemed infra dig and been a bit of a strain. It’s under-standable. Human nature.’

She glared. ‘Which is supposed to mean that it was my father who was at fault?’ she demanded.

Maurice sighed. While some pride and filial support was to be applauded, in his opinion Darcy took the role of devoted daughter far too seriously. She also possessed a faulty perspective.

OK, Sir Rupert Weston had been an endearing old codger and an upper-echelon actor, but it was a well-known fact that the guy had been no saint. Anything but. And yet, he philosophised, it was also human nature for kids to dote uncritically on their fathers.

‘All it means is that you and Robards are a very different combination from him and your pa,’ Maurice replied, as if soothing a foot-stamping and sadly misguided three-year-old. He stood up. ‘Everything OK?’ he asked, smiling at his guest, who had returned.

Keir nodded. ‘And with you?’ he enquired, his eyes flicking down to where Darcy sat solemn-faced.

‘Wonderful,’ Maurice claimed. ‘There’s no doubt Darcy would’ve zapped the critics under Bill Shapiro’s direction——’ she received a flattering smile ‘—but with you calling the shots she’s destined to take the Big Apple by storm. You’re sharp, energetic, imaginative.’ Now it was Keir’s turn to be shone a flattering smile. ‘A guy with a firm concept of what he wants and who isn’t afraid to go for it.’

Keir lifted a brow. ‘You reckon?’

‘And how,’ Maurice enthused, deaf to the pithiness of the comment. ‘Didn’t have a chance to break the news to her before because this has been one hectic week,’ he continued. ‘On Monday a client who’s always causing me pain——’

As her agent rattled off into a non-stop and unstoppable account of his week’s trials and tribulations Darcy sneaked a look at the man who had sat down opposite her again. Despite the intervening years, he was much as she remembered him. The odd strand of silver now gleamed amid the thick, straight dark blond hair which brushed his collar, and the vertical creases on either side of his mouth were etched deeper, but his eyes remained a clear cobalt-blue beneath brows which were uncompromisingly straight. His jawline was still granitecut and his nose aquiline.

As an actor Keir Robards had collected female fans with insolent ease and yet, while she, too, had considered him a sight to make any girl’s knees turn to water, his good looks had not been the appeal. What she had found magnetic was his intelligence, his style and a sense of inner steel which had made him seem…dangerous. Darcy felt a sharp pang of distress. He had been dangerous, as she knew to her cost.

That steely quality remained and with the years had come a sureness. The younger Keir Robards had been quietly confident but the mature Keir Robards was a man of authority, a man of stature, a man with whom one did not mess.

As she gazed at him from beneath her lashes two emotions travelled through her—emotions which contradicted each other yet were intertwined. She felt a strong hostility—and an equally strong attraction. A shadow crossed her face. How could that be? It made no sense. She loathed and despised Keir Robards. End of story. Finishing his recital, Maurice grabbed his glass from the table and drained it in one gulp. ‘I must be off,’ he declared.

Darcy’s head snapped up and she looked at him in astonishment. ‘Off?’ she repeated. ‘You mean you’re not having dinner?’

‘Nah. You don’t need me around. Much better if I vamoose and leave you two beautiful people to talk things over together in a cosy tête-à-tête. Don’t you agree, Keir?’

His guest had been watching their interplay and he gave a dry smile. ‘That’s what you arranged.’

‘Besides,’ Maurice went on, when Darcy started to protest, ‘I have another appointment fixed for this evening.’

As he beckoned to the waiter and paid for the drinks Darcy’s green eyes began to burn. She had been set up! Guessing she would not wish even to meet Keir Robards, let alone work with him, Maurice had prepared a trap.

Firstly, he had delayed advising her of the change in director, which he had apparently known about for days. Secondly, he had contacted the American and fixed for him to have dinner with her. Thirdly, this evening he had been late—on purpose, she thought angrily—which meant that he must have chickened out of dropping his bombshell when they were alone and when she could have properly voiced her dissent. When she could have laid it on the line that she was—as in definitely, no ifs nor buts, come hell or high water—pulling out of the play.

And now his intentions were clear; he expected her to be beguiled by the magnetic Mr Robards and swap her dissent for slavering acquiescence. A thought occurred. Had Maurice known how besotted she had been seven years ago? No. She had not started acting in earnest and been his client then. But he would be alert to Keir’s heartthrob status so it made no difference.

‘I’m sure you can cancel your appointment,’ Darcy said, shooting her agent a fierce, slit-eyed look which warned him that she had realised the game he was playing and was unamused.

He shook his head, pony-tail swinging. ‘’Fraid not.’

‘But Maurice——’ she began, switching from ferocity to a somewhat frantic appeal.

‘I understand the food is excellent here and I’ve arranged to foot the bill, so enjoy,’ he instructed, and after bestowing ‘mwah-mwah’ kisses to both her cheeks the young man made his farewells and hurried away.

‘Louse,’ she muttered.

‘Are you referring to Maurice or to me?’ Keir enquired from across the table.

She looked at him. She had not realised that she had spoken out loud. ‘Maurice,’ she said, though thinking that he qualified for the description too. ‘He’s not to be trusted. He’s always been a tricksy individual and he always will be.’

‘Then why keep him on as your agent?’

Darcy had wondered about that herself. She had also mulled over the irony of someone who was not very good at show business and certainly not as ambitious as one was meant to be being represented by a pushy wheeler-dealer like Maurice.

‘Because he has an impeccable instinct for identifying good parts,’ she replied, which was true—most of the time.

Keir’s blue eyes held hers in a level look. ‘You also keep him on because his father used to be your father’s agent.’

Darcy stiffened. She did not want to talk about her father—not with him. No, thank you. It was a no-go area, sacred ground where Keir, as the infidel, had no right to trespass. Where he was banned. But hadn’t his comment been a condemnation?

‘So I’m carrying on a family tradition. There’s nothing wrong with that,’ she said defensively.

‘But there is something wrong with Maurice keeping stumm about Bill Shapiro and not telling you of this evening’s arrangements,’ he remarked, and lifted his glass to his lips.

As he sampled his gin and tonic his eyes took a journey over her. Starting at the top of her burnished sable-brown head, they toured her face—the high cheekbones, almond-shaped green eyes, full, crushed-strawberry mouth—fell to linger for a moment on the pout of her breasts, swept lower over her body to her hips and went down the length of her legs until the low table masked any further view.

He lifted his gaze. ‘You’ve grown up,’ he said.

Darcy bridled. His look had been a leisurely and detailed inspection. She felt as if he had removed every stitch of her clothing, piece by lazily tossed-aside piece, and surveyed her naked. Stark naked.

‘People do,’ she retorted. ‘I was eighteen when we last met, whereas now I’m——’

‘A sophisticated twenty-five,’ he said.

Because Maurice had told her on the telephone to ‘dress in your best’ Darcy was wearing a slim-skirted black linen suit with a spaghetti-strapped coffee-coloured lace camisole. She had also made up her face with unusual care—bronze eyeshadow, sooty mascara, the works—and had shampooed her hair which swung in silky sable-brown curls around her shoulders.

She knew she was looking good and, although she told herself that she did not give a fig about whatever Keir Robards might say, it was impossible to prevent a glow of feminine pleasure.

‘Thanks,’ she said curtly.

Keir’s eyes fell again. ‘Who still has the most tempting curves,’ he added.

Sophisticated or not, Darcy flushed scarlet. His comment held a wealth of meaning, for when she had visited his room at the Brierly all those years ago the dress she had worn had been daringly low-cut and, as she had hoped and intended, Keir had been fascinated by the honeyed swell of her breasts.

Darcy fought an urge to yank her jacket across her chest and fasten each and every button. All of a sudden her camisole seemed woefully revealing, and from the continued dip of his gaze he appeared to be fascinated by her lace-covered bosom now.

‘Couldn’t the play be postponed until Mr Shapiro is well again?’ she enquired, in a determined and rather desperate switch of subject.

Calmly raising his eyes to hers, Keir shook his head. ‘It’d mean too much upheaval for too many people, you must realise that. And if the theatre slots went it might take a year before they could be replaced.’ He dragged a hand through the spikes of tawny hair which persisted in falling across his brow, raking them back. ‘You haven’t worked with either Bill Shapiro before or with me, so what makes you prefer him?’

She shot him a startled look. Didn’t he know? He had to. He must. It was neon-lit to her. But of course Keir might consider the events of the past to be of little consequence.

While his regarding her piece of lunacy as insignificant would be an enormous relief—perhaps his reference to her curves had been random and the bedroom incident had faded from his mind?—that he could be indifferent to what had happened with her father—to her father—made her burn with raw resentment. How callous. How cruel. Yet she supposed it was possible. One person’s catastrophe could be another person’s hiccup, and everything had happened a long time ago.

Darcy took a sip of sparkling water. His question had sounded rational and reasonable so she would answer in a similar manner; but what did she say?

‘I prefer Mr Shapiro,’ she began, ‘because, well, for a while now I’ve had it fixed in my head that he’d be directing, and I’ve become used to the idea. And I liked it. And when we spoke on the phone he seemed a pleasant individual. And…’ Aware of waffling, Darcy heard her voice fade away.

‘And you’ve never lusted after him,’ Keir completed.

To her fury, she felt her cheeks start to burn again. He had not forgotten what had been the most embarrassing incident in her entire life. Damn it. Damn him. But he need not think that she would be covered in girlish confusion this time.

Darcy had once acted the role of Cleopatra at stage school and now she eyed him with icy and regal disdain. ‘I’ve never lusted after you,’ she declared.

A smile played around the corners of his mouth. ‘No kidding?’

‘I had a crush, that was all. A mild, innocent schoolgirl crush, which lasted for an extremely short time.’

‘And your innocence lasted for an extremely short time after that because you became a hot item with the young Lothario Gideon McCall.’

At his mention of the actor whom she had once dated, Darcy frowned. The distaste in Keir’s tone indicated that he could be recalling how, on the expiry of their romance, Gideon had spoken about it to the Press. Her frown deepened. If Keir did not approve of Gideon’s lurid and elaborately fabricated kiss-and-tell which had been pounced on by the tabloid newspapers, neither did she; though it had served one useful purpose.

‘Gideon was a humanoid calamity, but regrettably when I was younger——’ she shone a cheesy smile ‘—I did not have such great taste in men.’

‘Ouch,’ Keir murmured.

‘However, now I’m far more discerning.’

He lifted a brow. ‘Heaven be praised for maturity. So why are you reluctant to work with me?’ Keir asked, returning to his earlier enquiry.

Having stalwartly denied her first reason, Darcy was left with the second. But by the time the so-called ‘artistic differences’ with her father had occurred she had been avoiding Keir Robards like the plague so he had not been aware of her feelings, her conclusions, nor of the blame which she had later apportioned.

She bit deep into her lip. She balked at revealing any of this now, balked at reviving hurtful memories which could, if she threw caution to the winds, lead to the flinging of a dramatic indictment. What was the point? Her much loved father was dead. Nothing could be changed.

‘You’re afraid that as I’ve not directed since— when?—last fall I might be rusty?’ he said, when she remained silent.

As he had hesitated Keir had brushed his fingertips across his mouth in thought and drawn her gaze. He had a thin upper lip and a fuller, sensual lower one. Once she had spent hours fantasising about those lips, that mouth—how it would feel when he kissed her, how after much delirious kissing, when her own mouth was softly bruised and tender, his would move slowly and tantalisingly down her naked body; how his lips would brush across the peaks of her aching nipples, how he would open his mouth and——

Darcy dragged her eyes away. What was she thinking?

‘Correct,’ she declared, grabbing gratefully, if untruthfully, at his suggestion.

While she never sought out information about Keir Robards it was impossible to avoid the occasional newspaper paragraph or comment made by a colleague within the theatre. So she knew that he would accept a directing assignment—sometimes a stage play, sometimes a film but, during the past seven years, never again in England—then vanish from public view for perhaps several months before he became involved in the next. What he did in between times was a mystery.

‘I often have gaps and yet—touch wood——’ Keir leaned forward to press long, blunt-tipped fingers to the table ‘—so far I’ve managed to do a good job. I intend to do a good job this time.’

And never mind any damage you might inflict on others, Darcy thought bitterly.

Pushing back his cuff, he checked the vintage Rolex watch which was strapped to his broad wrist. ‘It’s eight-thirty,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we find our table and carry on talking in the restaurant?’

Darcy clenched her fists, the fingernails biting into her palms. She did not want to dine with him. No, no, no. What she wanted to do was deliver a series of ringing slaps to his freshly shaven jaw, spin on her heel and march out; but that would be a big mistake.

Although Keir might direct intermittently, he possessed considerable status, and if she antagonised him too much it could rebound and damage her career. People in the business would notice her withdrawal from the play and ask questions, and all it would need would be a comment from him about Darcy Weston being unreliable or frivolous or plain contrary and other directors might think twice about employing her, regardless of her talent and unblemished track record.

So she must extricate herself in a manner which would maintain some entente even if it was a tad less than cordiale—though how she was going to manage this she did not yet know.

She rose to her feet. ‘Let’s,’ she agreed.

As they set off across the lobby towards the Brierly’s renowned and rosetted French restaurant Darcy was conscious of Keir prowling beside her. She was tall and, in her heels, sometimes taller than her escorts, which could be a handicap, but, at six feet four and well-built, he was very much the superior male.

She cast him a sidelong glance. While she half despised herself, his strong presence gave her a curiously protected feeling.

‘I wonder whether Maurice has arranged for you to be fed with oysters, followed by asparagus sprinkled with rhino horn?’ Keir remarked. ‘All washed down by champagne.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I got the impression he expects you to be poleaxed by my fatal charm and he might’ve asked the restaurant to dish up an aphrodisiac or two to help things along.’

‘If he has he’s wasted his time,’ Darcy said pertly.

Keir raised his brows. ‘Whatever you eat or drink, you’re not going to wrestle me to the ground, drag me beneath the table and have your wicked way with me?’

‘And break the first rule in the Brierly’s etiquette manual, which is “Do not cause a public scene”? Aw, come on.’

He gave the hint of a smile. ‘Then how about taking me up to the privacy of my room, perching on my knee, slipping your fingers between the buttons of my shirt and——?’

‘No!’ Darcy squeaked as images from the past danced like a chorus line of humiliating ghosts before her. She gulped in a breath. ‘Out of the question,’ she said, biting on every last syllable.

‘Pity,’ he remarked, and briefly placed a hand between her shoulder blades, where it felt as if it scorched a hole in her jacket. ‘After you.’

In the restaurant the maitre d’ ticked off the booking, which had been made in Maurice’s name, and led them to a quiet corner. As they threaded their way between pink-damask-clothed tables, Darcy was aware of a hush in the general buzz of conversation and several discreet glances.

It seemed that either one or perhaps both of them had been recognised, or, regardless of his identity, the interest of the diners had been drawn by Keir’s loose-limbed grace. It would be the latter, she decided astringently. His power to incite admiration had always been potent.

‘I’m not sure about working with Jed Horwood,’ Darcy declared after menus had been read, their choices given, and they were eating cold starters of lobster with mango and curry sauce. She had been searching for an excuse to leave the play, and here she had found one which contained an obliging degree of truth.

‘I know he breaks box-office records with his blast-’em-to-hell pictures, but——’ she wrinkled her nose at the thought of the American macho-man who, after forging a movie career armed with a Beretta, a forty-four-inch chest and a mumble, had declared the desire to ‘stretch’ himself and appear on stage ‘—I wonder whether his talents will transfer.

‘So,’ Darcy carried on breezily, ‘as there’s been a change in director this would seem to be the ideal time for a change of leading lady. I hate to relinquish the role but I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s far better if Jed is partnered by someone who’s one hundred per cent enthusiastic about him.’

‘You can’t pull out,’ Keir stated.

Her hackles rose. Her temper began to spark. He might have been brought in as director and have a special deal but that did not endow him with the divine right to dictate what she could or could not do!

‘Can’t?’ she demanded, her nostrils flaring and her chin tilted belligerently.

‘Can’t,’ he repeated. ‘You may have walked out on me once but you’re not going to do it again.’

She frowned. His voice sounded flinty, as though he had been annoyed about her walking out the first time. This seemed strange, for she had felt certain that he would have been relieved, if not downright ecstatic. Though perhaps Keir had objected to her leaving his room of her own accord, rather than him ordering her out. Yes, giving her the old heave-ho—Never darken my doorstep again, you idiotic and presumptuous child!— could have appealed to a deep-seated male need to be the master of every situation.

Darcy glowered. Whatever, she did not appreciate yet another reminder of the bedroom incident.

‘You think so?’ she challenged.

‘I know so,’ he replied. ‘You’ve signed a contract which commits you to play the role, remember?’

‘Yes, but as there’s been a change of director——’

‘Makes no difference. Your name on the dotted line means you agreed to do the job regardless of who directs or of any changes in the cast.’ He interrogated her with a look. ‘You weren’t aware of that?’

‘No,’ Darcy admitted, cursing herself for her ignorance.

She had been so delighted to be given the role that she had barely skimmed the pages before signing and Maurice had failed to warn her of any clauses which might prove obstructive.

‘I’ve read through everyone’s contract,’ Keir continued, ‘because, frankly, I’m not licking my lips over Jed and you, either. He could pull out in a pinch, but for you it’d be impossible.’ He sampled the red burgundy wine which he had chosen. ‘Unless, of course, you want to be sued.’

‘You mean go through a harrowing court case, be ordered to pay damages, end up broke and destitute?’ she enquired acidly. ‘I don’t.’

‘I figured not,’ he said.

‘How was the lobster?’ enquired the waiter, appearing to remove their plates.

Keir smiled. ‘Delicious, thank you.’

‘Nice,’ Darcy muttered, her mind flying every which way.

Just as she had been trapped into dining here with him this evening, so she was trapped into doing the play. She had no option but to work with the director who had had such a crippling effect on her father and never shown one iota of remorse.

Hurt gnawed inside her. One of nature’s extroverts, Rupert—he had liked her to call him by his given name—had always brimmed with joie de vivre, but after with-drawing from the production he had grown increasingly morose and distracted, until that dreadful day when——

‘Lamb cutlets with rosemary for the young lady,’ announced the waiter, removing a silver dome with practised flair and setting her plate down in front of her.

Darcy came back to the present. ‘Thank you.’

Another dome was expertly flourished. ‘And fillet steak, rare, for you, sir.’

As a selection of garden-fresh vegetables was served Darcy’s thoughts played hopscotch. Keir had reckoned that he was not licking his lips over either Jed or her? How dared he?

‘And what’s wrong with me?’ she demanded, her green eyes glittering. ‘Just as you always do a good job of directing, so I always do a good job—no, a great job,’ she adjusted mutinously, ‘of acting.’

Keir looked across at her, then looked up to speak to the waiter. ‘Would it be possible for you to bring a sharp knife?’ he requested. ‘As you can see, my companion is in an inflammatory mood and I have the feeling she’d very much like to cut off my——’

‘I don’t want to cut off anything,’ she gabbled, at speed.

When she had known him before he had sometimes shocked her—and secretly excited her—with his direct approach to matters physical and sexual, and now she was fearful of what he might say. They were dining at the genteel Brierly Hotel, after all.

‘That’s a relief,’ he murmured, and the waiter chuckled. ‘Of course,’ Keir went on, speaking to the man in a tone of male-bonded confidentiality, ‘she’s crazy about me really.’

‘I am not!’ Darcy yelped, then, recognising that he was baiting her and she was falling for it, she shone a plastic smile. ‘I think he’s cute——’

‘Cute?’ Keir winced.

‘But not that cute,’ she finished, with crushing relish.

Wary of being baited again, Darcy held back on any further protests until the waiter had safely departed and they were alone.

‘You should be grateful that I’m taking the female lead,’ she said as she renewed her attack. ‘You obviously aren’t aware of this but last winter I received an award for the Best Young British Actress of the Year. It’s an acknowledgement of outstanding performance given to actresses under thirty and it’s been won by a long line of women who are now some of this country’s most distinguished actresses.

‘I deserved the award,’ she went on, with a little puff of self-importance and more than a touch of grandeur, ‘and I was far ahead of the rest of the field.’

‘Wowee,’ Keir said, placing a fist to his brow in a gesture of mock exultation, but she ignored him.

‘I received the award for playing a difficult part in which I was totally realistic and totally convincing, and I’ve been totally convincing in all the other parts I’ve done, whether they’ve been on the stage or on television. My stage credits have included…’

As she catalogued a trio of West End successes Darcy listened to herself in surprise. She had been grossly sceptical of the award, as she was of all acting awards, yet this evening she had flaunted it. Also, mention the word ‘publicity’ and normally she cringed, yet now she was publicising herself and doing an excellent job.

Maybe she could be accused of going over the top, but it could not be helped. What mattered was making Keir realise, and acknowledge, that in her he had a jewel, a veritable diamond.

‘And ever since I won the award scripts have been thudding through my letter box, including some from Hollywood film producers,’ she informed him in a voice which thumbed her nose and said, So there! ‘Maurice is urging me to grab the scripts with two sweaty hands,’ Darcy went on, then hesitated, frowning. ‘However——’

‘I know about your award,’ Keir interrupted, as though her hard sell had exhausted his patience and any more would have had him stampeding hysterically for the door. ‘I also saw the play and was impressed.’

‘You did?’ she said in surprise. ‘You were?’

‘Most impressed.’

Coming from a director of his clout, this was praise indeed—but Darcy refused to blubber her thanks or even smile. Instead she coolly tossed the drift of dark curls back from her shoulders. ‘So you should’ve been,’ she said.

Keir had started to eat and he nodded towards her plate. ‘Don’t let your meal go cold.’

Obediently she picked up her knife and fork and for a few minutes they ate in silence. ‘So why aren’t you happy with either Jed or me?’ she demanded, when her lamb cutlets had been reduced to bone. ‘I’m——’

‘A phenomenal actress. Message received and understood.’ His look was sardonic. ‘But I didn’t say Jed or you—my reference was to Jed and you together. Have you met the guy?’ She shook her head. ‘I have and——’ He broke off. ‘How tall are you?’

‘Five feet nine.’

‘He’s much the same, in his built-up heels. But the male lead’s height is important because it’s integral to the plot that he’s seen to physically dominate the girl. Some actors—good stage actors—could create the illusion despite the lack of inches, but Jed? I doubt it.

‘He’s also dark and so are you, but a visual contrast would be better. The two characters are supposed to be chalk and cheese, different in many ways, until finally they join together.’ He eyed her sable-brown curls. ‘I couldn’t persuade you to get busy with the bleach bottle?’

‘Persuade?’ Darcy said warily. ‘Going platinum isn’t stipulated in my contract?’

‘Nope.’

She expelled a sigh of relief. As soon as she could she would go through the small print with a fine-tooth comb. ‘Then no chance.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ Keir said, and, stretching an arm across the table, he entwined a wisp of her hair around a long finger. ‘You have beautiful hair.’

‘Thanks,’ Darcy said, and drew back, forcing him to draw back too. She knew that it was simply his charm kicking in and her common sense kicking out, yet his touch seemed alarmingly intimate. Like a lover’s touch. ‘So you have your doubts about Jed’s capabilities too?’ she enquired.

Keir nodded. ‘Between you and me, I feel that in insisting on taking on the role he’s being overly ambitious. By far. That said, I’ll squeeze as good a performance as it’s possible to get out of the guy and I won’t let him turn the play into a piece of hokum.

‘However,’ he added, with a faintly mocking twist to his mouth, ‘while I hesitate to step on your ego—or put myself at risk of an impromptu vasectomy—don’t forget that it’s Jed who’ll bring in the audiences. You might be the cat’s pyjamas of the British stage but in the States you’re an unknown.’

Aware of being adroitly cut down to size, Darcy gave a thin smile. ‘True.’

‘Though,’ he continued, ‘there are some who’ll recognise you as Sir Rupert Weston’s daughter.’

She shot him a glance. His expression looked benign but did she detect condemnation again or could this be a jibe? From the start of her career Darcy had had to face comments, sometimes envious, sometimes scathing, about how she was following in her father’s footsteps, yet doing so had not been easy. His fame was a doubleedged sword in that while it had opened some doors it had closed others; and on the occasions when she had got inside she had had to perform and expectations had been high.

‘True,’ she repeated, being determinedly noncommittal. ‘Why did you agree to direct the play if you have doubts about Jed Horwood?’ she enquired, when they had both refused dessert but ordered coffee.

‘Because it’s so cleverly plotted and the dialogue crackles with such credible passions that, given dedicated performances, it has the ability to be theatrical dynamite. And because my financial deal is excellent.’

‘It is?’ she said, with a frown.

He nodded. ‘I had something going which I was reluctant to leave, but a special deal whereby I get a percentage of the profits was hammered out and I agreed,’ he explained. He swirled the remaining red wine in his glass. ‘I also agreed because the rehearsals and previews take place in Washington.’

‘What’s special about that?’

‘I live in Washington.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Darcy said, thinking that in fact she knew very little about his private life.

‘In Georgetown, so it means I’ll be able to keep a handle on—the rest of my activities,’ he said vaguely, ‘which is useful.’

His activities? What did he mean? she wondered, and it suddenly occurred to her that her one-time hero could now have a wife and it might be family life which demanded his attention. A line cut between her brows. The idea shocked and oddly jarred.

‘Are you married?’ she enquired.

‘No,’ he replied a little brusquely.

‘Oh, I just thought that, well, your looks and your talent make you quite a catch——’

‘You’re not praising me?’ Keir drawled when she stopped, aware of talking herself into an awkward verbal corner.

‘And you’re thirty-six, which is a marriageable age,’ Darcy finished in a rush.

‘I’m still single,’ he said, and raised his glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to the success of the play and here’s to the next time we meet—in Washington in a fortnight.’

‘A fortnight? You mean in a month,’ she protested.

‘No. This appears to be something else which Maurice neglected to mention,’ Keir said mordantly, ‘but rehearsals start in two weeks’ time. As you know, the lead roles are complex and, while Bill Shapiro may’ve been happy with a month of rehearsals overall, I’m not. I want two weeks with you and Jed working on the script together and alone before the rest of the cast arrives. OK?’

‘Do I have a choice?’ Darcy enquired tartly.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth and he shook his head. ‘None,’ he said.