Red Rose for Love
Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHE had been good, her performance perfect. She knew it and so did the audience; their wild applause brought an excited flush to Eve’s animated features. The applause was deafening, and they wouldn’t allow her to leave the stage.

Finally Eve had to give them one more song, silence falling over the standing people as she once again took up the microphone, waiting for everyone to be seated again before she indicated to her backing musicians to start playing.

It was her latest song, the song she had begun the concert with, and the audience loved it now as they had then. This time she didn’t wait for the cries for more, but took a hasty bow and left the stage, exhausted by the last two hours of her one-woman concert.

Her long dark hair was clinging damply to her forehead, falling smoothly over her shoulder, its straightness gleaming jet-black. She brushed the damp tendrils from her face, her hands long and slender, her nails long and lacquered the same purple of the clinging cat-suit she wore.

She looked to neither left nor right as she made her way to her dressing-room, a bright meaningless smile on her lips as the congratulations came her way from the staff who worked just as hard behind the scenes as she did before the audience.

Derek James, her manager, was waiting for her when she entered her dressing-room. ‘Great concert, Eve,’ he said excitedly. ‘You’re really made now. Everyone will be queueing up to book you.’

Eve sat down before the mirror, anxious to remove the heavy make-up she had worn on stage, wanting to cream her naturally peachy skin before wiping her face clean. She took out her bottle of lotion.

‘Don’t do that yet,’ Derek stopped her. ‘You look about sixteen without your make-up. Wait until we get away from here. There’ll probably be some fans waiting outside.’

‘You know I hate this look.’ She grimaced at her reflection, the face make-up giving her skin a dark glow, the eye make-up several shades of purple, her naturally dark lashes thickened by the dark mascara she had applied, her lips darkened by the plum-coloured lipstick. She looked totally unlike herself, and she hated it.

‘You may not like it,’ Derek put the lotion back in the drawer unused, ‘but the public loves it—and they’re the ones that count.’

‘Yes,’ she sighed, brushing her long hair free of tangles.

‘Don’t knock it.’ He pulled up a chair and sat down, straddling it, his arms resting on the back. ‘You were tremendous tonight, Eve. I’ve never seen you so—so damned sexy!’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘What happened to you out there?’

She shrugged. ‘I gave them what they wanted.’

‘And it worked! God, how it worked. You’ll be booked up for work for years to come.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘I can see the pound notes registering in your eyes. If I make money then so do you,’ she derided.

‘Talking of money,’ he took no offence at her rebuke, ‘you had a rich fan out there tonight.’

Eve instantly stiffened, her hand trembling slightly as she reapplied her lipstick. ‘Oh?’ She forced indifference into her voice.

‘Yes. Bartholomew Jordan. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?’ Derek asked anxiously.

‘Who hasn’t?’ she said lightly, her tension leaving her. It wasn’t Carl! After all, not every rich man could be him. Besides, there was absolutely no reason to suppose he would ever come to hear her sing again.

Derek looked disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm. A man of thirty, with an untidy attractiveness, he always looked as if he had just crawled out of bed, his clothes always badly creased, his hair untidy. He and Eve had met almost five years ago, when she was twenty and being badly managed by a man who had no interest in the style of music she projected. Derek had taken over her career from that moment, until she had now reached the peak of giving her own concert to a full audience, an audience fully attuned to her style of music, to the hard-rock songs and contrasting love songs that she enjoyed singing.

‘I said Bartholomew Jordan, Eve,’ Derek repeated crossly. ‘The Bartholomew Jordan.’

She nodded. ‘The banker.’

‘And the rest. The man’s a billionaire.’

‘Then what’s he doing at my concert?’ she dismissed scathingly, and stood up, a tall girl made even taller by the high-heeled sandals she wore. ‘I’m exhausted, Derek,’ she told him wearily. ‘I want to go home. And sleep, and sleep, and sleep,’ she yawned tiredly.

Derek shook his head. ‘You can’t do that. Mr Jordan wants to meet you.’

She pulled a face. ‘Then he’ll have to want. I’m too tired, Derek,’ she insisted as he went to protest. ‘I’m not in the mood to pamper an old man, even if he is rich as Croesus.’

‘Jordan isn’t old——’

‘Not unless you call thirty-nine old,’ drawled a third person.

Eve turned slowly, her expression giving nothing away as she looked at the man now standing in the open doorway. Yes, this would be Bartholomew Jordan; he just oozed confidence in himself and his power over other people. He was impressive to look at in the dark pin-striped suit, white silk shirt, and meticulously tied tie, his blond good looks a startling contrast to his deep tan. His hair was several shades of blond, from white to pure gold, in an overlong windswept style, his deep green eyes watching her mockingly, his lashes long and dark, his nose straight, his firm mouth curved into a questioning smile, his jaw strong and purposeful.

Yes, he was impressive—and Eve wasn’t impressed at all. She raised her eyebrows, controlled under that insolent stare. ‘They say eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves,’ she told him in her naturally husky tone.

Derek gave her a frowning look. ‘Eve——’

‘Would you leave Miss Meredith and me to talk?’ Bartholomew Jordan walked farther into the room, holding the door open for Derek to leave.

Eve faced him unflinchingly. ‘I believe you heard me say I was tired, Mr Jordan.’ She picked up her handbag and swished out of the room, down the corridor and out of the stage-door without a second glance.

She was instantly surrounded by enthusiastic fans, signing one or two autographs before she realised she was going to have difficulty getting away from here. She was being pushed and jostled, hands coming out just to touch her. She cringed from those hands.

Suddenly her elbow was taken in a firm grasp, and she was propelled firmly out of the crowd towards a waiting car. ‘Thanks, Der—You!’ she gasped as she looked straight into the deep green eyes of Bartholomew Jordan. She tried to pull out of his grasp. ‘Would you please let me go,’ she ordered coldly.

‘Gladly,’ he drawled. ‘If you want me to leave you to the mercy of that mob,’ he nodded behind her.

Eve followed his line of vision. If anything the crowd had increased in number. ‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t want you to do that.’

‘Then get inside,’ he commanded curtly.

The chauffeur had appeared at the back of the car and was even now opening the door for them. Eve got in, moving over as far as she could as Bartholomew Jordan climbed in beside her, the door firmly closed before the chauffeur got in behind the wheel. The window between the driver and the back of the car was firmly closed, leaving the two of them in complete privacy.

Eve was aware of the smell of expensive cologne, a tangy elusive smell that in no way detracted from this man’s own animal smell. She could also detect the aroma of cigars or cheroots, this smell as pleasant as the cologne.

‘Just how did you intend getting home this evening?’ he asked in that pleasant well-modulated voice that spoke of an expensive education.

She shrugged dismissively. ‘I was going to ask Derek to call me a taxi.’

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘After the performance you gave this evening you’re lucky to get away in one piece.’

‘I’m sorry I displeased you——’

‘You didn’t,’ he cut in on her sarcasm. ‘The opposite.’

Her head went back, her long dark hair gleaming down her back. ‘I hardly expected to make such an impression.’

His green-eyed gaze ran appraisingly over her clearly defined curves in the shimmering body-hugging material of her cat-suit. ‘In that outfit you don’t even need to sing to make an impression.’

Eve flushed at the familiarity in his voice. ‘Mr Jordan——’

‘Bart,’ he put in softly.

She blinked up at him, her eyes very blue. ‘Bart?’

He nodded, his hair very blond. ‘All my friends call me Bart.’ He took a cheroot out of the case in his breast-pocket. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked politely.

‘Not at all. And I’m not a friend, Mr Jordan,’ she told him coldly. ‘And I have no intention of ever becoming one.’ The smell of his cheroot filled the car as he returned his gold lighter to his pocket, using the expensive item as if it meant nothing to him.

‘Never?’ he quirked an eyebrow.

‘Most of my friends are of years’ standing,’ she said coolly. ‘Now could you please drop me off here? I can easily get a taxi now.’

‘Let me drive you to your home.’

‘I don’t live in London.’

‘Then I’ll drive you to wherever it is you want to go,’ he offered smoothly.

Eve controlled her anger with effort. This man liked his own way, that much was obvious, but men like him left her cold. Over-confident, arrogant, and high-handed—Bartholomew Jordan fitted that description as if it had been made for him.

‘I want to go here, Mr Jordan,’ she sat forward, ‘if you could ask your driver to stop.’

‘Why?’ came his stark query.

Her eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘Maybe because I like to choose my own company.’

His eyes narrowed, his expression thoughtful. ‘You don’t like me. Why?’

‘Like I said, I like to choose my own company.’

‘And given that choice?’

‘I certainly wouldn’t choose you!’ she said rudely.

‘Derek James?’

She looked startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

His expression was haughty. ‘He informed me you were spending the night at his apartment.’

And so she was, but in a separate bedroom! Not that this man would believe that, he wouldn’t understand such a sterile relationship. He was everything she most despised, over-confident, and over-wealthy, believing that wealth could buy him anything he wanted. And right now he probably thought it could buy him a place in her bed!

She gave him a derisive look. ‘I am. I always stay with Derek when I’m in town.’ She didn’t explain to him that she also stayed with Derek’s wife, Judy.

Bartholomew Jordan’s mouth twisted. ‘What a nice arrangement!’

She shrugged. ‘We like it.’

He studied the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘No chance of your dropping him?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Are you propositioning me?’ she asked slowly, disbelievingly.

He smiled a humourless smile. ‘I’m sure it isn’t the first time.’

Eve licked her dry lips, anger boiling up within her. ‘What are you offering?’ Her voice was controlled, too controlled if he did but know it.

He frowned. ‘What do you want?’

‘What does the woman in your life now get?’

He stiffened, searching her emotionless features with narrowed eyes. ‘What makes you think there is a woman?’

‘Nothing about you makes me think there isn’t,’ she scorned. ‘So, what’s the asking price?’

‘An apartment, financial security, jewels?’ he said tautly.

‘All of them?’

‘If you like,’ he nodded abruptly.

She seemed to consider. ‘And your time?’

He frowned his puzzlement. ‘My time?’

Eve nodded. ‘How often could I expect you to visit me?’

His frown deepened, his eyes glacial. ‘As often as I could,’ he said slowly.

‘Which would be?’ she persisted.

‘Once or twice a week.’

‘Oh, that wouldn’t suit me at all,’ Eve dismissed, bending forward to press the button that lowered the dividing window. ‘Could you stop here?’ she requested the driver.

‘Mr Jordan?’ he said uncertainly.

‘Drive on, Adam,’ Bartholomew Jordan instructed, closing the window again. ‘That wasn’t very clever, Eve.’ His voice had hardened to anger.

She turned. ‘I wasn’t trying to be clever,’ she told him coldly. ‘I’ve been working for weeks to get this concert together, this last week has been hell, tonight was exhausting, and now I have to sit here and take insults from you! You can take your proposition, Mr Jordan, and——’

‘I think what you’re going to say next isn’t ladylike,’ he cut in firmly.

‘Maybe it wasn’t,’ she rasped, ‘but it was a damn sight more honest than what you’ve been saying to me. Why don’t you just tell me you want to go to bed with me and be done with it!’

He drew in an angry breath. ‘All right,’ he nodded, ‘I do want to go to bed with you. Now. Tonight.’ He stubbed out the half-smoked cheroot.

‘Go to hell!’ she spat the words at him.

‘What is it about the arrangement you don’t like? Ah yes,’ he drawled, ‘the amount of time I would spend with you. Was it too much or too little?’

‘Too much!’ she snapped. ‘Even sitting in this car with you now is too much. Men like you sicken me, Mr Jordan. You——’ She didn’t get any further; his mouth was savage on hers.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of fighting him, but lay placid in his arms as he kissed her with complete thoroughness. He left her cold, as she had known he would; his seduction was practised, his kisses designed to extract a response even from the most reluctant of females. Although she doubted he ever met ones that were reluctant.

But she was, her eyes spitting venom at him when he at last raised his head. A dark flush coloured his cheeks, his eyes narrowed angrily, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of her arms.

‘What did that prove, Mr Jordan?’ she scorned, shaking off his hands and straightening her tousled hair.

He sat back, that deep flush the only sign that he was at all put out by her lack of response. ‘It proved,’ he said slowly, ‘that your stage act is just that—an act.’

Eve gave him a startled look. ‘What do you mean?’

‘On stage you look incredibly sexy——’

‘And I don’t now?’ she taunted, knowing very well that she did.

He obviously knew it too. ‘I didn’t say that. There’s just no back-up to that act you put on for the audience.’

Her mouth twisted. ‘Because I’m not falling over myself with gratitude that you want me?’ she scorned. ‘Because I find your offer insulting in the extreme? Because I didn’t collapse in ecstasy when you kissed me? Well, I’m sorry, Mr Jordan, but as you said, it’s far from the first time I’ve been propositioned. And far from the first time I’ve said no!’

His eyes were cold now, like chips of green glass. ‘I should think the matter over seriously before you do that.’

Eve became still. ‘Are you threatening me?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Did it sound as if I were?’

‘Yes!’ she hissed.

He shrugged. ‘Then I suppose I must have been.’

Eve drew in an angry breath, sitting forward to once again press the button to lower the dividing window. ‘Stop this car immediately,’ she ordered the driver. ‘Don’t ask your employer’s permission,’ she said tautly. ‘Just do it!’

‘Sir?’ he requested hesitantly.

‘Do it, Adam,’ Bartholomew Jordan drawled. ‘When it’s convenient to do so.’

Eve didn’t look at Bartholomew Jordan again. As soon as the limousine came to a halt beside the pavement she rushed to get out, only to find Adam there before her, his expression blank as he held the door open for her. Maybe it wasn’t the first time his employer had been turned down, after all.

‘Thank you,’ she told the chauffeur huskily, stepping back as he closed the door, hailing a taxi as she saw one driving slowly down the street towards her, its ‘For Hire’ sign alight.

Amazingly it stopped behind the still parked limousine, and Eve climbed gratefully inside, relaxing back in the seat once she had given the driver Derek’s address, not looking at the limousine as they pulled out in front of it.

She wasn’t lying when she told Bartholomew Jordan that she had been propositioned many times before. In her profession she was bound to be, but never ever as arrogantly as he had done. And no one had ever gone to the extreme of making threats before either!

She became aware of the taxi-driver shooting her questioning looks in the driving-mirror. ‘Is there anything wrong?’ she frowned.

‘Er—no, love. I—I was just wondering,’ he spoke in a broad Cockney accent, ‘are you Eve Meredith, the singer?’

She flushed, her embarrassment acute at being recognised in this way. ‘I am,’ she admitted softly.

‘I thought so,’ he grinned at her in the mirror. ‘My daughter’s a fan of yours. She went to your concert tonight.’ He chuckled. ‘Just wait until I tell her I actually drove you home!’

‘Not home,’ Eve hastily corrected that impression, not wanting people she didn’t know suddenly appearing on the doorstep. ‘Just to a friend’s.’

‘I picked up Cliff Richard last week,’ he told her. ‘A real gentleman, he is.’

She could imagine he was, the ever-youthful superstar seemed to be liked by most people.

They were fast approaching Derek’s apartment now, and she once again felt the exhaustion wash over her. Tomorrow she would have to go back to the theatre and do the whole show over again, and right now she badly wanted to sleep and regenerate her weary body.

‘No charge,’ the driver told her once they were parked. ‘It’s been a real pleasure to drive you. Not very often I get to meet a celebrity.’

She wouldn’t exactly put herself in that class, but she accepted his generosity in the mood it was given. It was only as she stepped out on to the pavement that she noticed the dark limousine behind them, a limousine that swooshed smoothly past them, turning right at the end of the road, Bartholomew Jordan’s limousine!

The damned man had followed her to Derek’s home! Oh, that man was past enduring! She wouldn’t be harassed in this way, especially by a man like him. Any more trouble from him and she would call in the police. She doubted he would like that.

Derek wasn’t yet home when she let herself into the apartment, but his wife Judy was. She rose out of an armchair at Eve’s entrance, a small girl with frizzed blonde hair and a gaminely attractive face.

‘Wonderful concert, Eve,’ she hugged her.

‘Thanks.’ Eve gave a wan smile. ‘No Derek?’ There was always the possibility he could be in the bedroom.

‘He stayed behind to finish things up there.’

Eve at once felt guilty. ‘I should have done that,’ she sighed, collapsing into a chair and closing her eyes. ‘God, I’m tired?’

‘Go to bed,’ Judy encouraged. ‘There’s no reason for you to wait up for Derek.’

Eve opened her eyes, new life flooding into her weary body. ‘Oh yes, there is,’ she said firmly.

Judy raised her eyebrows. ‘That sounds ominous.’

‘It is.’ After all, it was Derek’s fault that she had met Bartholomew Jordan.

‘Oh dear!’

Eve forced a smile to her stiff lips. ‘Don’t worry, I just have a few questions to ask him.’ Like how forcefully Bartholomew Jordan had said he wanted to meet her!

‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Judy offered. ‘It will help to keep us awake.’

It did, just. And when Derek arrived home forty minutes later Eve woke up completely.

‘How did you get on with Jordan?’ was his first query.

She frowned. ‘You saw how I got on with him,’ she said guardedly.

He sat down beside her. ‘I meant later.’ He didn’t seem to notice her darkening expression. ‘Boy, he followed you like the devil himself!’

‘I think he is the devil himself,’ Eve said with disgust.

Derek looked disappointed. ‘You didn’t like him.’

‘Did you expect me to?’ she challenged.

He pulled a face. ‘I hoped you would.’

‘Well, I didn’t!’ she told him vehemently, her usually calm features animated with her dislike of the man.

‘Pity.’ Derek looked away, standing up to pace the room, a worried frown to his face.

Eve tensed. ‘How much of a pity?’ she asked slowly.

His expression became evasive. ‘He’s a powerful man,’ he shrugged. ‘It never pays to antagonise men like that.’

Judy looked puzzled. ‘Are we talking about Bart Jordan?’

‘Judy——’

‘Yes,’ Eve cut across Derek’s warning. ‘Yes, we’re talking about Bart Jordan, Judy. What do you know about him?’

The other girl frowned. ‘Well, I—I—Derek?’ she looked at him appealingly.

‘Okay,’ Eve sighed, ‘Derek can tell me. What about Bart Jordan, Derek?’

He shrugged. ‘I already told you, he isn’t a good man to make an enemy of. Make us some coffee, sweetheart?’ he requested of his wife.

Eve knew it was a way of getting the other girl out of the room, which only heightened her suspicions. ‘Derek!’ she said firmly once they were alone. ‘I want to know what’s going on.’

He threw himself back down into the armchair, one leg hanging over the arm. ‘Nothing is going on,’ he dismissed tersely, a sure sign that he was agitated. He was usually so even-tempered that Eve knew there was something wrong.

She frowned, biting her bottom lip. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you aren’t telling me?’

‘I have no idea,’ he dismissed. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting to bed? You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.’

‘And the day after that, and the day after that,’ she grimaced. ‘A week of this and I’ll be dead.’

‘A week of this and you’ll be made,’ Derek corrected.

She quirked an eyebrow. ‘I thought I already was,’ she reminded him, tongue-in-cheek.

‘Yeah, well—wait until you see the reviews in the morning!’ His enthusiasm was never dampened for long, in fact it was this enthusiasm that had got Eve this far.

She stood up. ‘Don’t wake me,’ she instructed tiredly.

‘Not even for the reviews?’

‘Not even for them,’ she groaned, aching in every bone of her body. Her stage show involved dancing as well as singing.

‘Rehearsals at eleven sharp,’ he reminded her, his mind firmly on business as usual.

‘Don’t remind me!’ She staggered into her bedroom.

Without Derek’s prodding and hard work Eve doubted she would ever have risen above touring the seedy clubs she had been working in when they had first met. At the time she had been happy with her lot, had accepted what she felt to be her limitations, had lacked the drive and ambition to get even as far as she was today, let alone the superstar bracket Derek had mapped out for her. But Derek had pushed her on until now she had one hit record behind her, another new release, and now this concert.

Derek had worked so hard on her behalf, had begged and stolen work for her, until the last six months her career had really taken off. She couldn’t exactly be called an overnight success, although the public recognition, such as the taxi-driver’s, still came as something of a surprise to her.

Had Carl seen her success? Did he ever regret the way he had forced her out of his life?

Damn Carl! She hadn’t thought of him for months—well, weeks—well, actually it was days, but who was counting? Bartholomew Jordan had brought back the memories of Carl, one more reason why she hated him. Just another rich man who thought his money could buy him everything, including love!

She could finally remove the detested make-up, and felt cleaner and fresher once that was done. She studied her reflection in the mirror. Derek was right, she did look about sixteen without the make-up; she also, to her mind, looked more attractive.

At the end of the week she could go back to Norfolk and be just the nonentity Eve Meredith, could go back to her houseboat and live a normal life again. Derek had promised her a holiday after this week of concerts, and she could hardly wait to get back to Norfolk. Maybe she wasn’t really cut out for stardom, although this was a hell of a time to discover it, and Derek felt sure that she could make it right to the top. Still, much as she valued him as a friend, she still knew that fifteen per cent of nothing was nothing.

She turned over in the bed. Heavens, she was an ungrateful bitch tonight! Everything was sure to look brighter in the morning.

It did. She felt revitalised by her long sleep, her usual energy back in evidence. The reviews were good but guarded, speculating as to whether her dazzling performance could be maintained throughout the week.

‘I’ll show them!’ she told Derek, throwing the newspapers down in disgust.

He smiled. ‘That’s my girl!’

Rehearsals went perfectly, any minor adjustments that needed to be made being quickly ironed out. After a couple of hours of this she was ready to go back to the apartment and rest. She was delicately made, very slender, and she would need all the energy she could muster for the gruelling evening ahead of her. Maybe the critics were right after all, maybe she didn’t have the stamina for this sort of life.

When she arrived back at the flat it was to find the biggest bouquet of red roses she had ever seen in her life lying on the doorstep; both Judy and Derek were out. She recoiled just at the sight of them, her expression darkening as she read the card that went with them. It was signed simply ‘Bart’.

The roses went straight into the dustbin, the card along with them. God, that man was really pushing his luck! Bart, indeed! Only his so-called ‘friends’ called him that!

She was so steamed up she must have paced the apartment for half an hour or more, sleep completely forgotten. She was so angry that she sent him a telegram in the end; it read, ‘Received and discarded, Eve Meredith’. She sent it to his bank, knowing that something as important as a telegram would reach him wherever he was.

That would show him what she thought of him and his roses!

It was when she woke up that the uncertainty set in. Much as she disliked Bartholomew Jordan and everything he represented, he really wasn’t a man she should antagonise. And the telegram had been a childish gesture. It should have been enough that she knew she had destroyed the roses. This way she was inviting retribution.

But it seemed not. A second bouquet of roses appeared at the theatre that evening, this time signed ‘Bartholomew Jordan’. He had to have received her telegram by now. Unless he had placed the order for these roses before he had received it? But that didn’t make sense, not when he had signed the second card so formally.

He certainly was a persistent man, surprisingly so, although it was doubtful that he needed to be this persistent normally; most women would be falling over themselves just to be associated with him.

Derek’s eyebrows rose as he saw the roses still lying in their cellophane on the table where Eve had thrown them. ‘An admirer?’ he asked curiously, obviously looking for the card she had put away in her handbag.

‘One with more money than sense,’ she nodded. Her cat-suit was a deep red this evening, her hair long and crinkled from the tight plaits she had bound it in after washing it this afternoon. Her make-up was just as dramatic, her mouth a deep slash of red to match the suit.

‘Here,’ Derek broke off one of the roses and pushed it into her hair over her ear. It gave her the look of a wild gypsy. ‘Perfect,’ he nodded his approval.

Eve pulled the rose out of her hair, throwing it in the bin. ‘It would wilt before the end of the performance,’ she said stiffly as she saw Derek’s shocked face.

‘You could have replaced it during the break,’ he said practically.

Her head went back. ‘I’d rather not.’

He frowned. ‘Who are they from?’

‘Guess,’ she invited dryly, hoping he would put her dislike of the deep red blooms down to their sender.

His face brightened. ‘Not Bart Jordan?’

‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘Not Bart Jordan.’

‘Don’t tease, Eve,’ he said seriously.

She turned angrily to face him. ‘What is it about this man? Why is he so special? I’ve had men like him interested in me before, but you never tried to tell me how to behave with them.’

He flushed. ‘I’m not telling you how to behave with Jordan either. I just don’t think it would do us any good for you to upset him. He has a lot of influence, he could make things very uncomfortable for us if he chose to.’

‘And do you think he might?’ She remembered the threat in Bartholomew Jordan’s voice.

‘I think he could do,’ Derek nodded.

‘And what do you suggest I do about it?’ she asked tartly. ‘Sleep with him just to make sure he stays sweet?’

Derek flushed. ‘I didn’t say that——’

‘I’m so sorry,’ her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Maybe it just sounded that way to me.’

He gave an impatient sigh. ‘You’re impossible in this mood, Eve. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be nice to him.’

She stood up. ‘He doesn’t want me to be nice to him, he wants to go to bed with me!’

‘I’ll admit he’s attracted to you, but——’

‘He told me what he wants, Derek,’ she interrupted firmly. ‘He wants me, in his bed. And he isn’t getting me!’

‘Eve——’

‘The answer is no, Derek.’

He sighed. ‘I don’t have the time to argue with you right now, you have to be on stage in a few minutes. And for what it’s worth, Eve,’ he added almost gently, ‘whoever he was, he isn’t worth it.’

She froze. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded tautly.

‘You know what I mean. I’ve known you almost five years now, and you’ve never let a man near you——’

‘I’ve been out on dates!’

‘Date, in the singular. You never go out with the same man twice.’

She gave a tight smile. ‘Maybe I just like variety.’

Derek shook his head. ‘That isn’t true and you know it. No man lasts with you because he isn’t allowed to get near you, either physically or emotionally.’

Eve flushed. ‘You’re near me.’

‘Only as a friend, and only as near as you’ll let me. Eve, you——’

‘I have to go, Derek,’ she interrupted abruptly. ‘But I’ve never interfered in your private life, and I don’t expect you to interfere in mine.’

‘Eve——’

‘I have to go.’ She hurried out of the room as the music began to play.

It was perhaps unfortunate that the first person she saw was Bart Jordan. He was sitting in the front row of the audience, in an end seat, his blond hair very distinctive.

Eve glared at him, her resentment a tangible thing. This man had caused her to argue with Derek, something she never did, and worst of all he had brought back the painful memories of Carl.

If anything her performance was even better than last night, her anticipation of telling Bartholomew Jordan just what she thought of him incentive enough for her to give the performance of a lifetime. She had never been so sensually abandoned during the rock numbers, so heartbreaking during the sad love songs.

By the end of the evening she knew the appreciative clapping and shouting to be wholly deserved, and a lot of the fans were rising to their feet. Only one man didn’t applaud; Bartholomew Jordan got up and left by a side door as her last number came to an end.

Eve watched him go with disbelief. She had been conscious of his still figure all through the concert, had tried a little harder with each new song in the hope that he would applaud that one. He never did, just sat watching her steadily with those luminous green eyes.

Eve became more and more frustrated as the evening went on, and those heavy-lidded eyes never left her, a mocking twist to the firm lips that had plundered hers so thoroughly the evening before.

Well, she would show him when he turned up in her dressing-room. If he thought he had had the brush-off last night he would find out what that really meant tonight!

She waited fifteen minutes for him to show up, and when he didn’t she knew he must be waiting for her outside. He had probably left early to get his limousine.

But once she got outside there was no limousine, no Bartholomew Jordan. The damned man had genuinely walked out on her concert!

CHAPTER TWO

EVE’S mood was explosive during rehearsals the next day; she was critical of the musicians, until at last one of them shouted back at her. That took her aback, so much so that she was speechless for several minutes.

‘Okay, take a break, everyone,’ Derek filled in the silence. ‘Back on stage in ten minutes. You come with me.’ He pulled Eve off the stage and down into her dressing-room. ‘Now, what’s going on?’ he demanded to know.

Her face was flushed. ‘You had no need to do that,’ she snapped. ‘I could handle it.’ She pushed her hair back impatiently.

‘Maybe you could,’ he sighed. ‘But I don’t think the boys could. You were throwing the proverbial tantrum out there, Eve.’

‘I was not——’

‘You were, and you still are. What on earth is the matter with you?’ he sighed his exasperation. ‘You’re being hell today!’

She glared at him angrily for several minutes, her expression one of rebellion. Then the fight went out of her. She was being hell, she was surprised someone hadn’t told her earlier; the boys in the group didn’t usually take any nonsense, not from anyone.

‘I’ll apologise,’ she said tautly, her hands thrust into the back pocket of her skin-tight denims, her lemon tee-shirt figure-hugging too.

‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ he said firmly. ‘What’s upset you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Eve!’

She bit her lip, looking down at her hands. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, she just felt angry at the whole world. ‘Maybe I’m tired,’ she shrugged.

‘We all are. That’s no excuse.’ He put his arm about her shoulders. ‘You know that, don’t you, Eve? Guy was playing that last number perfectly, you were the one off key.’

‘I’ve said I’ll apologise!’

He moved back. ‘Make sure you do. Having the musicians walk out on us is something I don’t need.’

‘Derek——’

‘Okay, okay,’ he held up his hands defensively, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know you in this mood.’

She didn’t know herself. Usually nothing got to her, and yet since her first meeting with Bartholomew Jordan her mood had been very erratic. And no man was allowed to do that to her, she wouldn’t allow them to.

The rest of the rehearsals went off all right. Guy accepted her apology, but she took all the band out to lunch just to ease things between them. She was behaving very badly, something she had sworn never to do in her career. She was a lone woman working in a male-dominated environment, and the last thing she needed was to earn the reputation of being a temperamental bitch.

Luckily her behaviour didn’t seem to have inhibited the men in any way; their jokes were as ribald as usual as they more or less took the local pub over. She felt a little easier when she emerged out into the afternoon sunshine, walking to Derek’s flat rather than taking a taxi. She was unrecognisable without her dramatic stage make-up, just another pretty girl enjoying the sunshine.

She was relaxed before the start of that evening’s show—always a bad sign. The adrenalin should be pumping, her senses charged and alive. It was almost as if she had burnt herself out in anger that morning, and she had no enthusiasm for the show ahead of her.

‘Present for the lovely lady.’ Derek appeared in the doorway of her dressing-room, or rather the bottom half of him did; the top half was obscured by a huge bouquet.

She stood up. ‘Derek, you shouldn’t——’

‘I didn’t.’ He held out the flowers to her.

Eve stiffened. They were roses—red roses. The card clearly said ‘Bartholomew’. Her mouth tightened, and she fought down the impulse to throw the flowers away. They were beautiful roses, just in bud, and a deep, deep red. There must be at least three dozen here, she just couldn’t destroy them. Maybe one of the stage workers would like them for his wife?

‘Is it safe to come in?’ Derek raised a hopeful eyebrow.

She laughed at his pretended fear. ‘Yes, come in,’ she invited, putting the flowers down on the table; the ones from yesterday were still lying there in their cellophane.

Derek strolled over to a chair, leaning his arms on its back. ‘Persistent, isn’t he?’ he said dryly.

Eve gave him an angry glare. ‘I suppose you looked at the card,’ she accused.

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t realise it was a secret.’

‘It isn’t,’ she sighed. ‘How long have I got?’ she changed the subject.

‘Five minutes. Are you ready?’

She spun round in the electric blue cat-suit. ‘Don’t I look ready?’ she teased.

‘You always look beautiful.’

‘Thanks,’ she accepted dryly. ‘Why the flattery, Derek?’ she asked, eyes narrowed.

‘No reason. Surely it can’t hurt to make you feel good before you go out on stage? You were looking a bit tired when we arrived,’ he added worriedly.

Strange, she didn’t feel that way any more; the adrenalin was pumping, the blood heated in her veins. ‘I’m fine now, Derek,’ she assured him.

‘Mood gone?’

‘I—Yes, mood gone,’ she said reluctantly.

He quirked an eyebrow at the roses. ‘He wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would he?’

‘Certainly not!’ Her tone was waspish. ‘I wouldn’t allow a man like that to affect me in any way.’

‘A man like that?’

‘Yes, a man like that!’ Her eyes flashed deeply blue. ‘You know the type as well as I do, Derek. They think their money can buy them anything.’

‘He was rich too, was he?’

She gave him a sharp look. ‘Who was?’

Derek shook his head and stood up. ‘This last few days your guard has really started to slip, Eve. I think maybe Bart Jordan is starting to get to you.’

‘No man “gets to me”!’ Her expression was fierce.

‘Not since the last rich man who let you down, no,’ he agreed calmly. ‘But everyone has a type they fall for again and again, and I think maybe rich men are your type.’

‘I’ll show you what I think of rich men!’ she told him explosively, picking up the roses and throwing them out into the corridor. ‘I’d do the same to Bartholomew Jordan if he was here,’ she added childishly, wondering why she was letting a man like Bartholomew Jordan bother her in this way. And he was bothering her.

She meant it when she told Derek that no man got to her—they hadn’t, not since Carl. And she wasn’t going to let Bartholomew Jordan upset the even tenor of her life. Once she got back to Norfolk she could forget his very existence. In fact she would make sure she did.

She walked out of the dressing-room, her head held high, the crumpled roses completely ignored, forgotten as she stood in the wings waiting to go on stage.

But Carl wasn’t forgotten, would never be forgotten. And just making her think of him like this was reason enough to hate Bartholomew Jordan.

She ran out on stage as the music began to play, a bright artificial smile fixed on her lips as she began to sing the first number. Her gaze was drawn reluctantly to the seat Bartholomew Jordan had occupied the night before. It was empty! Not occupied by someone else, but empty. What was the man trying to do to her? First of all he sent her roses, then he snubbed her by not turning up to watch her concert. He had to be the holder of that ticket, it was too much of a coincidence for him not to be.

Once again it was her anger towards Bartholomew Jordan that inspired her to give a brilliant performance, and the audience were very appreciative at the interval as she tried to get off the stage.

‘Fantastic!’ Derek glowed, handing her the glass of fresh orange juice that was all she liked to drink when she was performing.

Eve noticed that the roses were gone from the corridor; they were also noticeably absent from her dressing-room as she slumped down into a chair.

Derek frowned at her paleness. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked worriedly.

‘I—not really,’ she admitted dazedly, the charged tension of the last hour and a quarter seeming to have drained her of all her strength. She felt weak, lethargic, and the thought of going back on to that stage stretched like a nightmare in front of her.

‘You have to get changed.’ Derek stood up to take the red suit out of her wardrobe. ‘You only have another ten minutes before you have to go back on stage.’

She fought off feelings of dizziness. ‘I—I feel—strange, Derek.’

‘Drink some more orange juice,’ he encouraged desperately.

She gave a wan smile. ‘I don’t think that’s going to do any good.’

His expression was angrily impatient. ‘It has to. You can’t let me down now, Eve. I’ve just about sold my soul for you to do these five concerts.’

‘No one asked you to!’ Her eyes flashed, deeply blue between thick dark lashes. ‘Okay,’ she stood up, swaying slightly, pushing back the feelings of faintness, ‘you go out, I’ll get changed.’

‘I’ll help you——’

‘You damn well won’t!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve been dressing myself since I was three years old, I don’t need any help.’

‘Maybe that’s your trouble, Eve,’ he stormed over to the door. ‘You won’t accept help from anyone. No one can go through life independent of other human warmth.’

‘I can,’ she glared at him. ‘Now get out of here.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m going!’ He slammed the door so hard behind him the whole room seemed to shake.

Oh dear, what had she done! Derek was the one true friend she had, and she had just thrown him out of her dressing-room.

She ran to the door, wrenching it open. ‘Derek!’ she cried after him as he walked away from her. ‘Derek, please,’ she begged.

He turned slowly, his face stony. ‘Yes?’ he asked curtly.

‘Oh, Derek, I’m sorry!’ She held out her hand pleadingly.

For a moment it seemed he was going to ignore that plea, then he relented and gave a rueful smile. ‘Our first argument.’ He shrugged. ‘Not bad after five years.’

‘I really am sorry,’ she bit her lip. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘Nerves,’ he dismissed. ‘Hurry and change, Eve. Only another hour to go and then you can sleep for twelve hours if you want to.’

‘Tomorrow’s rehearsal…?’

‘Forget it. You couldn’t be any better than you are right now. And I happen to think you need the rest more. Just get through this hour, Eve, and you can take tomorrow off.’

‘All right,’ she nodded, her smile bright, but that smile faded as she went back into her room.

She was trembling all over, her skin cold and clammy. Something was wrong, seriously wrong, and yet she knew she couldn’t let Derek down. Derek? Shouldn’t she be going through this gruelling torture for herself, and not because of loyalty to Derek?

She knew he wasn’t lying when he said he had just about sold his soul to get the money together for this weekly booking. She had had one hit record, her second was slowly starting to creep up the charts, but that didn’t make her a star. Backers for a relative newcomer weren’t easy to come by, and it had taken Derek months of hard work to get the cash together.

And now she wished it were all over, wished she never had to perform in front of an audience again. She loved to sing, had always enjoyed it, but maybe the reviewers were right when they said she didn’t have the stamina to compete in the big time.

It took all her will-power to change into the red suit, but her entrance back on stage was greeted with ecstatic applause. She was halfway through the first number when the spotlights playing across the stage picked up the fair head set at an arrogant angle on the first row of seats, the bright light emphasising the many shades of blond.

Bartholomew Jordan was now sitting in the seat he had reserved! He must have come in during the interval. She hadn’t spotted him at first because it just hadn’t occurred to her that he would arrive this late in the show.

But there he was, just as self-assured as ever, looking totally out of place amongst the teenage audience she had attracted, the deep green velvet jacket, snowy white shirt, and black trousers equally out of place. He looked as if he were either on his way to, or had just come from, a dinner engagement.

Once again he didn’t applaud her performance, but his green-eyed gaze didn’t deviate from her once as she sang song after song. This time he stayed until the end of the concert, but he made no effort to come backstage to see her.

Eve had to admit to being puzzled by his behaviour. He obviously hadn’t lost interest in her, and yet he wasn’t pursuing her as doggedly as she would have expected him to. Not like Carl; he had been very persistent. But she hadn’t been so unwilling then, hadn’t got her fingers burnt.

Carl. She would never forget him, or the lesson he had taught her. Her mind was plagued with thoughts of him as she tried in vain to fall asleep that night. She was exhausted, she should have fallen asleep instantly, but memories of Carl wouldn’t be denied. She could see him now, tall, dark, incredibly handsome, with a lethal charm that no woman, least of all the naïve fool she had been then, could resist.

She had been singing in a club out of town the first time she saw him, singing the meaningless songs that didn’t intrude on the enjoyment of the patrons as they ate their meal before going in to gamble on the gaming tables in the other room.

Carl had been with a tall blonde woman, classically beautiful, her clothes obviously having an exclusive label. And yet for all her apparent wealth and beauty the other woman hadn’t been able to hold Carl’s attention, Eve had done that.

The intensity of his gaze made her blush, and she even stumbled a couple of times over the songs she had been singing night after night for the past two weeks, ever since the club had opened. She had been lucky to get the job in the first place, although she was far from being the top entertainment the club had to offer, the top stars appearing in the gaming-room.

Carl had come back the next night, alone this time. He had invited her over to have a drink with him during her break. She had refused, as the club rules said that she wasn’t to mix socially with the customers. She had been grateful enough for this stipulation when she first went to work at the club; a lot of the places she had worked in in the past had treated her as little more than a call-girl. And yet she had been attracted to Carl, had wanted to be with him, had been regretful at having to turn him down.

He had finally realised what the problem was and had arranged to meet her away from the club, although he usually managed to get into the club to see her for a few minutes each evening when she was working. That first evening they had gone out for a late supper. Carl had got her to talk about her family, about her dead parents, the godparents who had brought her up since their death. He had seemed genuinely interested in her life, although he revealed little about himself, except that his name was Carl Prentiss, and that he had a business in the City.

Eve had been naïve, naïve and totally stupid, infatuated with a surface charm and the way he received only the best service wherever they went together. His affluence was something he took for granted, but something that in her naïveté she had been impressed with.

When he kissed her goodnight he never took advantage of her eagerness, another clever move on his part, she now realised. She would have run a mile if she had known of his true interest regarding her.

She could still remember that last painful scene between them, when she had learnt exactly what Carl wanted from her.

They had been seeing each other for about two months by this time, meeting one or two evenings a week. Carl often took her to dinner after she had finished work. By this time she was so much in love with him, with his confidence, his maturity, that when he had told her he had a present for her, a surprise present, she had instantly thought of an engagement ring, of marriage.

‘I’ve found you an apartment,’ he told her once they were out in his car, a Porsche, its sleek lines telling of its price. Carl told her he had had it custom-built, and she could believe that; the car was the last thing in luxury.

She had blinked up at him dazedly. ‘An apartment?’

‘Mm,’ he nodded, his smile at its most persuasive, his handsome face flushed with pleasure. ‘Somewhere we can go to be alone.’

‘But——’ she frowned, her disappointment about the engagement ring very acute, ‘I already have an apartment.’

‘With four other girls!’ he scoffed. ‘I said somewhere we can be alone, Eve. And I do want to be alone with you, darling,’ his hand came out to grasp her thigh, his fingers lightly caressing through the thin material of her skirt. ‘Completely alone,’ he added throatily.

‘But I can’t afford an apartment of my own.’ Surely he wasn’t suggesting they moved in together! It might be prudish, and totally out of fashion, but she believed a wedding should come before she lived with any man.

Carl turned to smile at her. ‘The rent’s very cheap, darling,’ he assured her. ‘And it means I’ll be able to visit you there whenever I can get away from the office.’

‘And when I’m not at work myself,’ she put in worriedly, a little overwhelmed with the speed with which things were moving. So far she had only received goodnight kisses, and now it seemed Carl intended spending a lot of time with her in the privacy of an apartment he had found for her.

Nevertheless, she had been delighted with the apartment, with its location overlooking the river, with the furniture Carl assured her came in with the modest rent. The rent had finally been the deciding point, that and the way Carl had made love to her more intimately than any other man. She had made an embarrassed comment about the size of the bed that occupied the only bedroom, and Carl had wanted to demonstrate that it was only just big enough—for the two of them.

She had only panicked when it seemed he wasn’t going to bring an end to their caresses until they had made love fully, and she pulled out of his arms to get up from the bed. Carl had laughed throatily, lying back on the bed to watch her with taunting eyes.

She should have realised then, should have known his intention was to share the apartment with her when he could get away from his wife.

She had had no knowledge of Carl’s being married, had been shocked to the core when he had arrived at the apartment a couple of days later informing her that he could spend the evening with her as his wife had gone to her parents’ and taken the children with her.

Eve had been aghast, horror-stricken with the easy way he told her of his wife and children.

‘But I thought you loved me,’ she choked. ‘I thought you wanted to marry me.’

His mouth turned back in a sneer. ‘Marry you?’ he scorned. ‘Men like me don’t marry girls like you.’

‘Girls like me…?’ she echoed faintly.

‘Oh, come on, darling,’ he smiled mockingly. ‘You knew what I was after from the first, you just held back because you wanted more for what you’re about to give me.’

‘Get out of here!’ she screamed at him. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’ She turned away, deep sobs racking her body. Married! Carl was married!

He swung her round, his handsome face now an ugly mask, his blue eyes scornful. ‘If anyone goes, Eve,’ he snarled, ‘it will be you. This happens to be my apartment.’

All colour left her face. ‘Y-Yours? But I—I pay the rent. I——’

His mocking laughter cut her off mid-sentence. ‘Rent! You call that pittance you pay rent?’

‘Well, yes. I——’

‘Grow up, Eve,’ he scorned. ‘An apartment in this area, this apartment, would cost ten times what you’re paying.’ He pulled her into his arms. ‘Don’t be difficult, darling,’ his lips were at her throat. ‘Let’s not waste any more of the evening arguing——’

Eve struggled to escape from the arms that were suddenly repugnant to her. ‘That woman——’ she breathed. ‘The one you were with that first evening——’

‘My wife,’ he said impatiently, his hands pulling at the blouse she wore with a black flower-print skirt, ripping the silky material in his haste.

Eve felt sick, swallowing down the nausea. ‘Let me go!’ she pushed at his arms ineffectually, feeling her blouse rip even further as Carl became increasingly angry with her. ‘Let me go, Carl!’ she choked, deathly white.

‘What the hell is the matter with you?’ He suddenly thrust her away from him. ‘You knew the score the day you decided to move in here. Oh, I know you like to keep up an act——’

‘Act?’ she repeated faintly, slumping down on to the sofa, pulling her torn blouse over her lace-covered breasts, colour flooding her cheeks as Carl clearly mocked the action.

‘The act of the sweet little virgin,’ his mouth twisted. ‘The Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-your-mouth act,’ he scoffed.

Eve looked up at him with pained eyes, wondering how she had ever thought herself in love with this monster of a man, a man devoid of all sensitivity, a man who cared nothing for her as a person but only wanted her body, inexperienced as it was.

‘How can you say that?’ she gasped. ‘I am a virgin.’

‘I know that, Eve,’ he taunted. ‘But you weren’t exactly backward in coming forward the last time we were here together.’ He sat down on the sofa beside her, pulling her determinedly towards him. ‘You’re a passionate little thing,’ he mocked, ‘and after a few more lessons from me you might be able to please me as much as I please you.’ He laughed softly, standing up to lift her effortlessly into his arms and walk purposefully into the bedroom. ‘I think it’s time you had another lesson. You might be less prudish afterwards.’

‘No!’ She pushed at him, his arms tightening like steel bands about her. Carl was surprisingly strong, well muscled, and kept that way by a work-out in a gymnasium three times a week. Now he exerted that strength, throwing her down on the bed and swiftly following her, holding her down with his leg over hers, his arm across her breasts as his mouth plundered hers.

Eve felt nauseous, fighting him for all she was worth. But he wouldn’t stop, and his hands quickly dispensed with her clothes, much to her shame and embarrassment. When his mouth moved to her breasts she knew she couldn’t stand it any more, and her nails dug into his back. Carl stiffened, groaning in his throat, finding pleasure in the pain she was inflicting.

‘You’re learning,’ he chuckled throatily. ‘I like that,’ he moaned. ‘Do it again, little wildcat.’

She felt like screaming, almost hysterical by this time, and her hand went up to scrape her nails down his tanned cheek.

He sprang back in pain, his hand going up to his face. ‘You little bitch!’ His face contorted viciously, his hand coming away from his cheek covered in blood, four livid scratches marring his skin, blood still slowly seeping down his bronzed cheek. ‘You little bitch,’ he repeated, and his hand came out to land painfully against the side of her face.

‘Carl…!’ She cringed back against the pillows, terrified of the burning anger that tautened every muscle of his body.

‘Yes—Carl,’ he snarled. ‘How the hell do you suppose I’m going to explain these scratches to my wife?’ He took her by the shoulders. ‘You stupid damned bitch! Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ He flung her back against the pillows. ‘Well, you’ll pay for it now!’

What had followed had been the most humiliating experience of her life. Her body had been subjected to Carl’s lovemaking in the most brutal way possible, her brain numbed, the bruises on her body and mind not felt until much later.

When he had finished with her he stood up to dress, not even looking at her as she huddled beneath the sheet, her body bruised all over from his rough treatment of her.

He knotted his tie with meticulous care, once again the debonair man he had been when he arrived an hour ago. God, she thought, had it only been an hour! It had seemed like an endless nightmare, leaving her with her body violated. But the scratches she had given him made him a marked man.

He seemed to think so too, as he studied them in the mirror, a dark scowl to his face. ‘Helen will give me hell about this,’ he muttered furiously, turning to glare at Eve. ‘What the hell am I supposed to tell her?’

She was sobbing quietly, feeling as if her body were unclean. ‘Why don’t you tell her the truth?’ she said dully.

He gave a tight smile. ‘That a little wildcat scratched me? I think she’ll guess that. It wasn’t a very wise thing to do, Eve, Helen’s family have some important connections. I’ll have to do penance for weeks to make up for this.’ He sat down on the bed, lightly touching her cheek before she flinched away. ‘It probably means I won’t be able to see you for a few weeks, just until the hue and cry dies down.’

Eve recoiled from his touch, her disgust for him evident in her eyes. ‘You mean you—you intend coming back here?’

‘Of course,’ he laughed throatily. ‘You were a bit rough tonight, Eve, but I liked it.’

‘I was rough?’ she gasped.

‘Okay, I was too,’ he shrugged. ‘But you started it.’ He kissed her hard on the mouth before standing up. ‘I’ll call you when I can manage to get away. Take care, hmm?’ He walked confidently out of the room.

‘Carl…?’ she called after him, but he seemed not to hear her, and the door closed quietly as he left.

How long she lay there in frozen silence she never afterwards knew, and then suddenly she began to cry, deep pain-racked sobs that shook her whole body.

And her humiliation hadn’t been over either; there had been much more to come, humiliation of another kind this time.

She had finally fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning, just too weary to leave at that time, confident in the knowledge that Carl wouldn’t be back tonight. She had been woken by the insistent ringing of the doorbell, and pulled on her robe and went to answer the door. It couldn’t be Carl; he would never ring, she had discovered yesterday that he had his own key.

A delivery boy stood outside, a huge bouquet of red roses in his hand. ‘Miss Meredith?’ he asked brightly.

She clutched her robe to her, aware of how bedraggled she must look, the cut and swelling on the side of her mouth making it look as if someone had punched her, bruises on her arms and throat.

‘Yes?’ Her voice came out husky, her throat sore from all the crying she had done during the night; she seemed to have cried even in her sleep.

‘These are for you.’ The boy held out the roses, waiting expectantly.

Eve took them dazedly, turning back into the room to find her purse, handing the boy a tip before slowly closing the door.

The roses were from Carl, of course, an apology for his behaviour the night before. ‘Sorry, darling,’ the card read. ‘I love you. Call you soon.’

He loved her, after the way he had treated her? His idea of love and hers differed greatly, and the sooner she got away from him and out of this apartment the better she would feel. She left the roses on the table untouched, then called Rosemary, one of her old roommates.

Of course she could sleep over with them, Rosemary had assured her, although she would have to sleep on the sofa, as they had already let her old room. Eve hadn’t cared where she slept, it could have been on the floor for all she cared, as long as it wasn’t in this apartment, like the kept woman she undoubtedly was.

She was halfway through packing when she heard the key in the lock. Carl! Heavens, he was back already! What was she going to say to him? What could she do?

She wiped her hands nervously down her denims, looking very young and vulnerable as she walked out into the lounge. She gasped as she saw the woman who stood there. Helen Prentiss, Carl’s wife!

The woman turned, cool blue eyes raking over Eve’s casual appearance with obvious disdain. Her own appearance was impeccable, from her sleek shoulder-length hair to the pale blue leather shoes that exactly matched the colour of the fitted blue dress she wore.

She arched an eyebrow at Eve, glancing fleetingly at the roses, her mouth twisting derisively. ‘Miss Meredith?’ she drawled, her voice huskily attractive, her precise English accent obviously acquired at a private school.

Eve licked her lips, wondering when this nightmare was going to end, or if indeed it ever would. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed shakily.

Helen Prentiss picked up the card that lay beside the roses. ‘So I see,’ she scorned. ‘He’s sorry?’ she said with amusement. ‘After the mess you made of his face I would have thought you would be the contrite one.’ Hard blue eyes suddenly probed Eve’s pale face. ‘You’re the one who did that to Carl, aren’t you? My God,’ she gave an abrupt laugh, ‘don’t tell me he’s cheated on both of us!’

‘No,’ Eve bit her bottom lip, ‘I—I did it.’

‘Really?’ Those hard blue eyes narrowed, a frown marring the beautiful face. ‘Strange, you don’t look the violent type. Oh well,’ she shrugged in a bored voice, ‘you never can tell. Would you mind if I sat down?’ she asked calmly.

‘I—No. Go ahead,’ Eve invited awkwardly.

The other woman did so, crossing one shapely leg over the other. She was a really beautiful woman, aged about thirty, and Eve couldn’t understand why Carl felt the need to be unfaithful to her.

Helen Prentiss looked up at her. ‘Now what do you intend to do about my husband?’

Again Eve licked her dry lips. ‘D-Do?’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

The other woman sighed. ‘How old are you, my dear?’

‘Almost twenty,’ she answered awkwardly.

‘You’re the youngest to date,’ Helen Prentiss drawled in that bored voice.

‘Youngest…?’ Eve repeated dazedly.

‘Yes.’ The other woman gave an amused laugh. ‘You don’t think you’re the first, do you?’

‘I—Well, I—I hadn’t——’

‘Hadn’t thought about it,’ the other woman finished dryly. ‘Well, to my knowledge you’re the sixth one in this apartment.’

Oh God! Eve dropped into a chair, feeling suddenly faint. She wasn’t even the first woman Carl had kept in this way, she was just one in a long line, although by the determined tilt of Helen Prentiss’s chin she could be the last.

She frowned. ‘Don’t you mind?’

Helen Prentiss shrugged. ‘The first dozen or so times I did, now I’m past caring. But I have the children to think of. I wouldn’t want them to know what a bastard their father is.’

‘I—How old are they, your children?’

‘Nine, six, and four. The last two were attempts at reconciliations,’ Helen explained bitterly. ‘Not very successful ones.’ She snapped open her handbag, and took out her cheque-book. ‘Now, how much do you want to disappear from my husband’s life?’ She held a gold pen poised ready to write.

Eve went even paler, standing agitatedly to her feet. ‘I don’t want any money,’ she choked. ‘I’m leaving anyway. I was just packing when you arrived.’

‘Very well.’ Helen Prentiss put the cheque-book away, standing gracefully to her feet. She stopped at the door, her expression softening somewhat. ‘I’m sorry I had to do this, Miss Meredith.’

She shook her head. ‘You didn’t do anything—I told you, I was leaving anyway.’

Helen Prentiss nodded, her blue eyes shadowed. ‘He’s a brute, isn’t he?’ she said resignedly, and left as silently as she had arrived.

Eve must have broken all records packing her suitcase and leaving that hateful apartment. Carl had telephoned her several times at the flat, had even come round himself once, only to be turned away by an angry Rosemary.

Yes, she had learnt her lesson about men the hard way, but she had learnt it.

And now she had another spoilt rich man pursuing her, a man who also sent red roses. But Bartholomew Jordan wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, she would make very sure of that.

CHAPTER THREE

EVE slept in late the next morning as Derek had said she could, spending a leisurely hour in the bath once she got up. Would Bartholomew Jordan be there again tonight? She had a feeling he would be.

The roses arrived as usual, signed ‘Bart?’ this time. She had to admire his nerve!

Yes, he was there as she began the concert, his behaviour exactly the same as before, those steady green eyes enigmatic as he watched her. This time he stayed for the full concert, getting up and leaving only as the rest of the audience applauded.

Eve had felt better tonight, although the feeling of weakness once again washed over her as she left the stage, and that cold clammy feeling was back. Derek caught her as she swayed.

‘What is it?’ he asked worriedly, looking down at her pale face.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she managed to murmur through suddenly stiff lips, the world suddenly seeming very far away, everything looking as if it was at the far end of a telescope. ‘I feel—weird.’

‘I would say Miss Meredith is suffering from strain.’ Bartholomew Jordan spoke authoritatively from behind them, instantly taking charge of the situation. ‘Have my car brought round to the back entrance,’ he ordered Derek. ‘I’m taking Eve home.’

‘No!’ She struggled to free herself as Bartholomew Jordan took over her support, his arm about her waist as he led her effortlessly down to her dressing-room. ‘My car should be here in a moment,’ he told her as he lowered her into a chair, his quick gaze taking in everything about the room at a glance, the roses he had sent still in their Cellophane wrapping.

Her legs and arms felt so heavy, her whole body lethargic, the world fading and returning in waves. She was even too weary to fight this man as he seemed to take control, of her and the situation.

He came down on his haunches in front of her, rubbing her chilled hands, very attractive in a dark evening suit that made his hair appear even more golden, his tan even deeper. ‘How long have you been like this?’ he demanded in that husky voice that spoke of authority.

She shook her head, trying to clear the fog that seemed to be taking over her brain. ‘I—Only just now,’ she licked her lips, their dryness making it difficult for her to speak. ‘I—I was fine—out there,’ she waved her hand in the general direction of the stage.

His eyes were narrowed to green slits. ‘You looked far from fine to me. You’ve been bordering on this collapse for days,’ he added grimly.

‘I didn’t collapse!’ she roused herself enough to protest. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’

‘Like hell you are!’ he exploded, standing up forcefully. ‘Derek had no business letting you continue in this state.’

Her eyes sparkled deeply blue as she fought back the fog that threatened to overtake her. ‘It wasn’t a case of “letting” me do anything, Mr Jordan. I’m twenty-five years of age, I control my own life, my own actions. And I can find my own way home!’

‘You can take your choice, Eve,’ he said hardly. ‘You either go by ambulance or in my car.’

‘I’m going by car——’

‘Then I’m taking you,’ he told her firmly, his tone brooking no argument.

‘I don’t want you to. I——’ Suddenly she started to cry, frowning surprise at her own weakness. What on earth was the matter with her? She never cried, never!

But she was crying now, the mascara that was supposed to be waterproof running in black streaks down her white cheeks. And she couldn’t stop herself, crying and crying, until her body shuddered with exhaustion.

Bartholomew Jordan grasped the tops of her arms and shook her gently. ‘Stop it, Eve,’ he ordered in a commanding voice. ‘Come on, pull yourself together.’

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