Читать книгу The Bride's Secret - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

‘WHAT’S the matter with Keith today?’ Marjorie pulled a face as she bent over Marianne and whispered in her ear, ‘He’s like a bear with a sore head; I’ve never seen him like this. Is it because you were late back last night?’

‘I don’t think that helped,’ Marianne said quietly as the wafer-thin model straightened again, and they both looked to where Keith was bawling at June and Guy, his face turkey-red.

‘He makes my Tony seem like a positive angel,’ Marjorie drawled softly. ‘And that’s hard to do, believe me. Well, we live and learn. I had no idea Keith had it in him.’ She glanced down at Marianne again, who was setting up the equipment, her face pale and sombre. ‘He’s crazy about you, you know,’ she added quietly.

‘Marjorie, please...’ Marianne raised anguished eyes. ‘That doesn’t help. I could never think of Keith in that way.’

‘Sorry.’ There was a pause, and then, ‘Mind you, if I had the choice of Keith or that hunk you went off with yesterday there’d be no contest. He was absolutely gorgeous . Old flame?’

‘Sort of.’ Marianne’s voice was dismissive but it didn’t work.

‘You were careless to let that one escape,’ Marjorie said softly, her beautiful almond-shaped eyes bright with curiosity. ‘Is he married? The best ones usually are,’ she added resignedly.

‘Marjorie, I’ve got to do this.’ Marianne kept her head bent to the task in hand. ‘Okay?’

‘I get the message: mind your own business, Marjorie,’ the other girl said good-naturedly. ‘But if he’s not married and you want to introduce us...?’ she wheedled hopefully.

‘It was a one-off, Marjorie; I probably shan’t be seeing him again,’ Marianne said as calmly as she could through her screaming nerves. Much more of this and she would say something she’d regret.

‘Pity.’ The model sighed deeply. ‘Great, great pity.’

The morning had started badly and got progressively worse, and by lunchtime Keith’s bad temper had affected everyone, making the very air tense and volatile, which made it all the more awkward when, just as they were packing up, Marjorie called across, ‘Marianne, you know that one-off? He’s going for double.’

‘What?’ She straightened and turned as she spoke, and then froze, her heartbeat going haywire, as she saw the tall, dark figure watching them from the road as he leant indolently against the side of his car, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans and sunglasses hiding his eyes. How could one man look so—so gorgeous?

They had been filming on Tangier’s three-mile-long white sandy beach, the atmosphere enhanced by several grazing camels and the two barefoot, curly-haired Moroccan children tending the animals; they had been delighted to pose for the cameras for a few dirhams. Although the May sun had been pleasantly warm at first, for the last two hours it had been blazing down out of a cloudless blue sky with the temperature steadily soaring. Marianne felt hot and dirty and sticky, and the last person—the very last person in all the world—she wanted to see at that moment was Hudson de Sance.