A Sudden Engagement
Penny Jordan

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THEIR play was going to close. Somehow Kirsty knew it; she could taste the bitter flavour of defeat, had sensed from the audience response that all was not going well. Her meagre savings were almost exhausted and unless she found an office job to tide her over she would have to go tail between her legs back to her parents.

If only Chelsea and Slade weren’t away in Italy! Much as she loved her parents, her mother was inclined to fuss, and indeed had never wanted her to become an actress. Her aunt, though, understood. An actress; Kirsty grimaced wryly, slipping out of the theatre without bothering to join the others in the green room. If it hadn’t been for Drew Chalmers’ biting criticism of her in her last play she might still have been appearing in it; might indeed have gone with it to New York with the rest of the cast.

As the icy cold wind, unseasonal in September, funnelled down the collar of her suede coat she shivered and tried to huddle deeper into it. The coat had been a present from her aunt and her new husband the previous Christmas, and a very welcome one. The soft cream suede suited her dark curls and faintly olive-tinged skin and the expensive cut flattered her curvy shape; slightly less curvy of late. The salary she was being paid by the small theatre group she was now working for barely covered her rent and the basics; and just for a moment she allowed herself to think weakeningly of her mother’s delicious cooking; of the meal that had always been waiting for her when she lived at home.

She was the one who had wanted to leave, she reminded herself. If her mother had had her way she would still be living in Melchester, still going out with the boy next door, marriage ultimately on the cards when he finished university, but much as she liked him she hadn’t wanted that.

For as long as she could remember she had wanted to act, had dreamed of acting, but always the very great parts, she acknowledged ruefully, and she had firmly believed that she could succeed in her chosen career. Her drama school teachers had encouraged her, and she had been over the moon when she had got her very first role; a small part, admittedly, but in a very prestigious work by an up-and-coming playwright. Now she could acknowledge that she had never felt truly at home in the role—that of a street-wise teenager, cynical and worldly. It had called for a depth of experience she now realised she lacked, and although she had done her best, and had been reasonably satisfied with the result, the sardonic and powerful critic who had reviewed the first night had been scathing in his denunciation of her interpretation of the role. ‘Small-town and small-time’, had been the most least offensive of his comments, and after reading his harsh denunciation of her Kirsty hadn’t been surprised to learn that she was no longer needed on the cast.

Since then she had spent six long months looking for work before she had got her present part; a very small walk-on one in fringe theatre, and strangely enough she now felt that she had gained the experience needed to play her lost part far better.

Quite why Drew Chalmers had made her the object of his acid attack she didn’t know; she would have thought herself far too lowly to merit such attention. One of the cast had suggested it might have something to do with the fact that he and the playwright Nigel Evans were acknowledged rivals. God, how she had hated him! Still hated him, she acknowledged honestly. But for Drew Chalmers she would now be appearing on Broadway, gaining the experience she needed if other theatrical doors were not to be barred to her. Chelsea had sympathised, but sympathy only went so far, and Kirsty knew anyway that her aunt did not have her passionate love for the stage, for all that she had originally trained for it. What hurt the most was that she knew that he had been right; she had not been up to the part, and his condemnation of her as a ‘small-town girl incapable of convincing any audience that she was anything other than exactly that, and second rate small town into the bargain’ still rankled.

It was almost a mile from the small dilapidated theatre the group had hired to Kirsty’s lodgings, and as she waited to cross the main road she noticed the long, sleekly expensive car hurtling past her. Its occupants would be going to dine and dance at the exclusive hotel on the edge of the town, made famous by its superlative golf course, no doubt. A small smile twisted her pretty mouth, as a sudden impulse took root in her mind. Why not? She needed something to cheer herself up, and there was still that birthday cheque she had received from Chelsea and Slade which she had been carefully hoarding for a rainy day. Why not go mad and splurge the lot? Caution and impulse warred and suddenly impulse won. She deserved a treat, Kirsty told herself firmly. She would go back to her lodgings, change, then take a taxi to the hotel and treat herself to a first-class meal and a night in the most luxurious accommodation the town could provide!

By the time she had reached her lodgings, a terraced house set in a miserable terrace of similar houses, bleak and unwelcoming on this unpleasant September evening, caution had prevailed to the extent that she had promised herself that if a phone call to the hotel elicited the response that no rooms were available she would forget the whole idea. However, she was in luck, or out of it, dependent upon one’s view, and the receptionist assured her cheerfully that yes, indeed, they had a room and that of course it was possible to book it for a single night.

Mrs Larch, her landlady, looked pained and curious when Kirsty told her she was going out to dinner and wouldn’t be returning that night.

‘Boy-friend, is it?’ she enquired, eyeing Kirsty assessingly. ‘Like I told you when I gave you a room, I don’t hold with those sort of carryings on. Always been a decent house, this has, and always will be.…’

In spite of her landlady’s avid curiosity, Kirsty managed to escape to her room without giving anything away.

Her mother would throw a fit if she could see her room, she reflected ruefully as she opened the door. The wallpaper was shabby and faded, the room heated by a miserly two-bar electric fire. The bed was narrow and lumpy; an old-fashioned wardrobe far too large and dark for the small room. No cooking was allowed in the rooms, but despite that Kirsty had managed to smuggle in a toaster, which together with her electric kettle meant that at least she could always have a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. But she was going to do better than toast and coffee tonight—much better! Now, what was she going to wear?

She opened the wardrobe and surveyed its contents thoughtfully. Thanks to her aunt she had several attractive outfits. One of them in particular caught her eye—a soft cream silk dress. Her mother had protested that at barely twenty she was far too young to wear anything so sophisticated when she had seen it, but she had fallen in love with it, and had refused to be placated with anything else.

She was lucky enough to find the bathroom unoccupied and the water almost warm—tonight she would lie for hours and hours in her very own bathroom, she promised herself, simply soaking in lovely hot, perfumed water. The silk slid softly over her newly washed and perfumed skin, the front dipping almost to the waist, revealing the swelling curves of her breasts, the cleverly draped neckline making the plunge alluring rather than obvious. The deep vee was repeated at the back before the dress teased and tantalised with full-length, close-fitting sleeves and a skirt that moved against her skin in silken ripples, caressing her body from hip to knee.

It was a dress that to another woman was instantly recognisable as very sexy, but to a man, conditioned to equate ‘sexy’ with ‘little black numbers’, it was quite plain, until it was seen on, preferably on a woman who knew how to walk properly, as Kirsty now did.

Her dark hair curled naturally and normally she left it down on her shoulders, but tonight she swept it upwards into a softly flattering style, adding the pearl and diamond earrings and the matching necklace that had been a bridesmaid present to her on the occasion of Chelsea and Slade’s wedding.

Kirsty smiled impishly as she thought of her aunt—nearer her own age than her mother’s and a close and valued friend. She wished they weren’t quite so far away, but her small godson’s arrival had left his mother a little tired and her doting husband had swept mother and baby off to Italy for peace and quiet before ‘the whole family descend on us for Christmas’, as he had put it succinctly to Kirsty before they left.

Kirsty liked Slade. Her aunt needed a man strong enough to curb her wilful streak and compassionate enough to understand her more vulnerable side, and in Slade she had found one. She and Chelsea were very alike, Kirsty admitted. She too had that same impulsive wilfulness that could flare up out of nowhere, and sometimes change the whole pattern of planned events. Like the time Chelsea and Slade had first met, and Chelsea had mistakenly thought that Kirsty was in love with him, and had decided to rescue her. A grin curved her mouth, bringing warmth to the sparkling brown depths of her eyes. Her skin, naturally matt and smooth, needed no foundation, but her training had taught her the importance of good make-up, so she applied blusher, and added mascara and the merest hint of coffee eyeshadow to add a mysterious allure to the slightly Oriental slant of her eyes, darkening her lips with a pretty gloss before slipping on slim-heeled leather shoes and picking up her red coat.

The taxi arrived on time, and Kirsty had to repress another grin as she saw the betraying movement of the lace curtains at the front window as she was driven away.

No doubt the rest of the cast would be in the pub now discussing the débâcle of the latest performance; even if they decided to go on she knew she could not. Playing a punk teenager, disenchanted with life, delivering lines in heavily interspersed with four-letter words and possessing very little other merit, had lost its appeal. Putting to use the secretarial skills her parents had insisted she learn would almost be a relief, and there would be other parts, she promised herself as the town centre was left behind and they began to drive from the more exclusive suburbs.

Winton was a small seaside town, close enough to Bournemouth to consider itself ‘select’ but yet somehow lacking the flair and panache which would have made it so. It was a town of retired schoolteachers and ex-soldiers, and surely the worst possible place on earth to launch a play dealing with the raw reality of life in Toxteth and the effect of environment on upbringing, which was the theme of the play, and one which Kirsty thought was very worthwhile, but somehow Bernard Wray’s interpretation of it lacked impact. Kirsty wasn’t too happy with his reliance on violence both in language and in actions to get across his message, but then she hadn’t written the play and he had, and the others seemed quite happy. She was too romantic, Kirsty acknowledged as the taxi took the coast road. All through her schooldays she had dreamed of the great Shakespearean roles, the Restoration comedies, the wit and laughter that lingered in these and the Noël Coward plays like the sharp, clean scent of lavender. Who amongst the modern playwrights could rival those giants?

Lost in her thoughts, Kirsty suddenly realised that her taxi was turning into the approach to the hotel.

Built in the full flush of Edwardian splendour, it had a shrub-lined drive, and the early September dusk hid from her the lawned gardens and golf course which the hotel boasted. A uniformed commissionnaire opened the taxi door for her, and suddenly throwing herself into her new role, Kirsty tipped the driver recklessly, bestowing on him a smile that transformed her gamin features and made him stare at her in stunned appreciation.

The hotel foyer was thickly carpeted; several business-suited men wandered about, mingling with the older guests who were obviously hotel residents. Kirsty gave her name to the smiling receptionist, who indicated the way to the dining room and its intimate bar, where several couples were already enjoying pre-dinner drinks. The Edwardian ambience of the hotel was underlined by the bar and dining room, referred to by the receptionist as the ‘Palm Court Suite’.

Clever lighting emphasised the skilled and effective trompe l’æuil work on the walls and ceiling—if she hadn’t known better Kirsty could almost have been persuaded that beyond the delicate trelliswork on the walls actually lay that perfect blue sea and matching sky, so persuasive was the illusion of a Mediterranean shore depicted on the walls. The theme was carried through with attractive white ‘terrace-style’ furniture, and as she ordered a pre-dinner cocktail from the mouthwateringly tempting selection Kirsty started to study her fellow diners.

Studying human nature was a fascinating pursuit, and as always the actress in her was searching eagerly for mannerisms and expressions to add to her repertoire.

When her cocktail arrived it tasted delicious, worth every penny of the exorbitant price she had seen listed beside it; a pale banana-yellow frothy delight that reminded her of a grown-up version of her favourite milk shakes. It was also extremely potent, and by the time the head waiter appeared discreetly at her side to tell her that her table was ready Kirsty was beginning to feel distinctly lightheaded.

She had been skipping lunches recently; a reminder not to drink when she was doing so, she told herself as she studied her menu avidly.

Selfconsciousness had never been one of her faults; no one aspiring to be a successful actress could be, and consequently she felt no embarrassment at dining alone, oblivious to the appreciative looks she was getting from the male occupants of other tables as she pored over her menu, totally absorbed in the difficult task of making the right choice.

At last she decided on a seafood platter followed by tournedos Rossini, always one of her favourites. Her waiter’s smiling approval of her choice amused her, and she allowed herself to be persuaded into glancing over the wine list and selecting a modest half bottle of a sharp white Burgundy, shaking her head over the red he suggested, explaining that she found it too rich.

‘No… honestly, I couldn’t manage another mouthful,’ Kirsty pronounced with regret, waving aside the proffered second helping of Californian strawberries.

Once they realised that she was on her own, the waiters had vied with one another to serve her, and she had entered into the rivalry in a lighthearted way. Despite their evening suits and formal expressions, most of them were only boys, similar in age and outlook to her own friends, and Kirsty had never been tonguetied or embarrassed in the presence of the opposite sex. Curiously enough, despite this, neither had she ever fully experienced passion or desire. Until she left home for drama school her only boy-friend had been the son of close friends of her parents; a traditional boy-and-girl relationship, more that of brother and sister than anything else, although they had exchanged the usual shy kisses and fumbling embraces. Since then Kirsty had had plenty of dates with her fellow drama students and their friends, but there had been no one to make her heart beat faster, or lose her head over.

She wanted to make a success of her career before she even thought about falling in love, she had decided long ago, and once she did fall in love it would be with someone who would be as much a friend as a lover.

Accepting the waiter’s suggestion that she drink her coffee in the lounge, Kirsty found herself a seat by the door that led on to the foyer. That way she could observe everything going on around her and yet still remain relatively tucked away herself. Her depression seemed to have lifted, and her normal ebullience restored. Even so, some things still rankled. Like Drew Chalmers’ criticisms of her, for instance; criticisms which had blighted her career just as she was taking her first faltering steps. He must have known how inexperienced she was; after all, her small part hardly had the power to make or break the play, and yet he had attacked her with a savagery that still felt unhealed wounds. Her pride and self-worth were badly dented, and worse still, she had been forced to ask herself if she was actually going to be able to make it. Of course other members of the cast had come in for criticism too, but none quite so much as her, she was convinced of it. Perhaps he simply didn’t like my face, she thought angrily before dismissing the thought as unlikely; under all the stage make-up she had been wearing he wouldn’t have been able to see much of the real her, and she had also been wearing a wig. Common sense told her that a highly acclaimed critic would hardly denounce a member of the acting profession simply because he took an immediate dislike to their physical appearance.

Deep down in her heart of hearts Kirsty knew that she had been miscast, but it hurt to admit that there could be roles for which she lacked the experience, so she concentrated on Drew Chalmers’ malicious unfairness in picking specifically on her.

The receptionists changed shifts. The new girl, an attractive blonde, was soon busy dealing with a sudden influx of people, when Kirsty saw a tall, dark-haired man cross the foyer and stand easily at the back of the small crowd.

Whether it was the impatient glance he gave the expensive gold watch strapped to a sinewy wrist, or the air of dark authority with which he surveyed his surroundings, Kirsty didn’t know, but, trained to recognise such things, she couldn’t mistake the alacrity with which the receptionist dealt with the small queue in order to assist him, turning to him with an appreciative smile and a warm ‘Good evening.’

For all that he was casually dressed in narrow dark pants and an obviously expensive cashmere sweater in a warm mulberry shade which enhanced a tan Kirsty suspected had never come from any sunbed, when he spoke it was with a crispness that spoke more of the boardroom than a hotel foyer.

‘Drew Chalmers,’ Kirsty heard him say in stunned disbelief. ‘I’m in Room 107.’

Drew Chalmers here! It was almost as though she had conjured him up out of her thoughts. She studied him covertly. This was Drew Chalmers, the man who had ruined her career? She had visualised him as much older than his apparent thirty years; much less obviously male as well. He didn’t look a bit as she had imagined him. She had pictured someone smaller, dapper almost, not this six foot odd of lean masculinity with a shock of thick dark hair and a way of moving that reminded her of a lazy cat. Her coffee completely forgotten, she sat transfixed, listening unashamedly as he explained that he was expecting a friend to arrive.

‘I have to go out for several minutes,’ Kirsty heard him explain. ‘But if Miss Travers arrives, please give her my key and ask her to let herself into my suite. Oh, and have the dining room send up a bottle of champagne, will you, we’ll order dinner later.’

Miss Travers! That could only be Beverley Travers, the newly divorced wife of an American oil millionaire, and according to the gossip columns Drew Chalmers’ constant companion.

When she had first heard him announce himself Kirsty had been curious to know what on earth he could be doing in this remote seaside town. Her upper lip curled faintly disdainfully. Now she knew. How very trite and predictable! If she ever contemplated having an affair with one anyone she would expect him to show far more originally than simply to book them into a quiet country hotel, no matter how luxurious. She spent a few minutes daydreaming about a country cottage tucked away from the rest of the world and the sort of lover she was rather ashamed of fantasising over. Surely she had gone beyond the stage of dreaming of that sort of encounter? Of being swept off her feet and made love to with a thoroughness that would sweep aside all the barriers of modesty and caution instilled into her by her nature and upbringing.

Looking at Drew Chalmers, Kirsty studied his back resentfully. There he was; oblivious to her presence, to the effect he had had upon her life. How would he feel if it had been his life that had been blighted; his bright hopes destroyed, his future left uncertain and unhappy? A thought suddenly struck her, and her eyes widened in appreciation, a determined evident in them.

She looked again at the broad shoulders. Beverley Travers was a very possessive woman, or so she had read, and there had been murmurs in the Press that Drew Chalmers intended to marry her, but, scared by one divorce, she was apparently in no hurry to take on a second husband. An idea had begun to take shape in Kirsty’s mind, egged on by the cocktail and wine she had consumed. What if…? But no.… What was it he had said about her? That no way could she ever persuade any thinking person that she had the ability to perform credibly as an actress? Well, she would show him, she decided, suddenly coming to a decision. She would show him just how convincing she could be! He would eat those words before the evening was over. All at once a fierce determination filled her, blotting out all the inner voices of caution warning her against what she was contemplating doing, but Kirsty refused to listen to it.

She saw Drew Chalmers leaving the hotel, and got up herself, hurrying quickly to her room. 107, he had said to the receptionist. That was the number of his room, and all she had to do was find it, and conceal herself somewhere in it—either the balcony or the bathroom, if it was the same design as her room, she decided, her thoughts racing ahead as she quickly improved upon her original idea. Drew Chalmers was plainly expecting his mistress; Kirsty intended to turn that romantic scene into something that potentially had all the elements of a Restoration comedy (or a Whitehall farce!), but only she would be able to appreciate the humour of the situation, when she emerged from Drew’s bathroom clad in the silk nightdress Chelsea had brought back for her from the South of France during the summer, and proceeded to enact the part of the dizzy ingénue, caught out in her lover’s bedroom. Then they would see who couldn’t act convincingly, she thought with a satisfied smile. Of course she would be forced to admit to the truth ultimately, but not before she had had the satisfaction of proving his judgment of her wrong.

Carried away by a deliciously heady sense of anticipated retribution endorsed by cocktails and wine, she refused to admit to any flaws in her plan, any doubts that it might not work, and totally ignored the tiny voice trying to remind her that impetuosity had ever been one of her faults.

It would just serve him right, she decided rebelliously as she opened her own bedroom door. And she hoped it took him all weekend to make Beverley Travers forgive him. He was an arrogant brute; unfeeling too. He must have known she was barely out of drama school.… Her thoughts raced busily on, totally absorbed in her plans.

Conscious of the fact that Beverley Travers could arrive at any minute, she quickly peeled off everything but her bra and briefs and then donned the silk nightdress, pulling over it a thick, fleecy dressing-gown that was really a relic from her schooldays, and which was not likely to raise any eyebrows if she was spotted in the corridor.

As luck would have it, the stairs leading to the floor above where Drew Chalmers’ room was situated was deserted. It was too early for anyone to be retiring and too late for people to be coming down for dinner. Kirsty found the room without too much difficulty, biting her lip in sudden vexation as she realised she had no means of getting into it.

Furious with herself and on the verge of abandoning her plan, she was shocked into stiff immobility when she felt someone touch her arm.

Dreading coming face to face with Drew Chalmers, she glanced round, then sagged with relief when she realised it was only the chambermaid.

‘You ‘ave forgotten the key?’ The girl was foreign—Spanish, Kirsty guessed, and obviously sympathetic, from her smile. ‘See, I have one. I will let you in.’

Truly the gods were favouring her tonight, Kirsty marvelled as she thanked the girl and stepped into the darkened room.

Only it wasn’t a room. It was a suite, and she was just gazing open-mouthed round the luxury of a sitting room furnished in chintz and excellent reproduction furniture, when she heard sounds outside. There was barely time for her to slide into the first door—the bedroom, she deduced from the shadowy shape of the bed—before she heard a key in the lock and the sound of the light switch being flicked.

Someone was moving around outside. Kirsty strained her ears, catching the tinkle of ice and other small sounds, before the light was extinguished and the door firmly closed. Then she remembered hearing Drew Chalmers ordering champagne. Tentatively opening the door, she saw that she had guessed correctly. The dim outline of an ice bucket on the low table glinted faintly in the moonlight seeping through the uncurtained window. She let out her breath in relief. Next time she would be prepared. She would have to be! She only hoped that Beverley Travers didn’t take it into her head to wait for Drew Chalmers in his bedroom rather than the sitting room. She wanted Drew Chalmers himself to be there when she announced her presence. She wanted him to witness exactly how convincing she could be as an actress!

She passed the time waiting for Beverley Travers’ arrival in silent study of her shadow-shrouded surroundings. The bedroom and its fittings were typically impersonal; hardly seductive, she would have thought, her body tensing as she heard the sound of a key in the lock, and the light being switched on. She held her breath, praying that Beverley Travers—it could only be her this time, surely?—wouldn’t come into the bedroom, and it seemed that luck was with her.

How long would Drew Chalmers be? Not long, she imagined. He had told the receptionist that he wouldn’t be. Kirsty could hear Beverley Travers moving around outside, the chink of a bottle against glasses, and then she froze with tension as she heard the outer door open, and Drew Chalmers’ cool, faintly cynical voice drawling softly, ‘Sorry about that, I wanted to get an evening paper.’

‘You’re a workaholic!’ Beverley Travers’ voice was warmly seductive. Keyed up and sensitive to everything happening in the other room, Kirsty could imagine the seductive quality of the smile she could sense in the other woman’s voice, the way her eyes would linger on Drew Chalmers’ arrogant male face.

‘Not while you’re around.’

She heard Beverley Travers laugh, and then say, ‘And champagne—you’re spoiling me!’

‘Only because you’re worth it.’

The words held an undertone of insincerity, as though they had been said before, and Beverley Travers obviously caught it too, because she demanded sharply, ‘Am I? Are you sure I’m not just another pleasant little diversion, Drew? Because that isn’t what I want from you.’

That must surely be her cue, Kirsty thought, smoothing damp palms against her dress. Her appearance now would make a definite impact.

And yet, strangely, she felt curiously reluctant to move; in fact she almost wished she had never decided to come up here in the first place. Scared? an inner voice mocked her. She admitted that she was, and then quickly smothered her fear. No actress worthy of the name never felt any tremor of nervousness waiting in the wings, but the time for waiting was over, now she had to go on stage and prove to Mr High and Mighty Chalmers exactly what calibre of actress she was, before her courage deserted her completely.

Taking a deep breath, she moved towards the door, and then thinking quickly, rumpled the severe neatness of the bedclothes, closing her mind against the intimacies her action suggested. What she was doing was in no way underhand, she told herself stubbornly. After all, Beverley Travers must surely know that she wasn’t the only woman in Drew Chalmers’ life. He featured regularly enough in the gossip columns for even the blindest fool to be aware that he liked variety. Dismissing from her mind the thought of her mother’s disapproval, Kirsty reminded herself that she was simply playing a part; showing Drew Chalmers that when it came to acting she could be convincing. Concentrating completely on her role, she pushed open the door and stood there framed in the light, her lips parting on an astonished ‘Oh!’ as her eyes rounded in a mixture of dismay and surprise.

CHAPTER TWO

‘DREW!’ Now Beverley Travers’ voice was neither soft nor warm. It held bitter incredulity, icy disdain in the pale blue eyes sweeping over Kirsty’s disordered hair and rumpled clothes. ‘Drew, who is this?’

‘Oh, Drew, I’m so sorry,’ Kirsty murmured huskily, cutting across the other woman’s acid question, one hand stretched pleadingly towards Drew Chalmers as he stared at her with thunderous disbelief in eyes that were the colour of grey flint.

‘What the.…’

‘Oh, Drew, please don’t be angry!’ Kirsty had the stage now, and allowed her mouth to droop pathetically, tears filling her eyes, as she glanced pleadingly up at the grim mouth, now pulled into a tight hard line. A shiver of premonition iced its way down her spine as she realised that instead of looking disconcerted and embarrassed he was regarding her with a clinical intensity that warned her that she hadn’t caught him as much off his guard as she had expected.

Beverley Travers, however, was reacting exactly as Kirsty had anticipated, her face flushed with anger as she looked from Drew Chalmers’ impassive face to Kirsty’s tear-stained and pleading one.

‘I don’t pretend to know exactly what’s going on here, Drew,’ she said tightly, picking up her handbag and glaring at Kirsty, ‘but next time you invite someone to share a rendezvous with you can I suggest that you check with your diary to make sure you haven’t double booked. Oh, and by the way.…’ she paused in the doorway, her eyes slating Kirsty, before they turned, bitter and icy, to Drew Chalmers, relaxed and apparently totally unmoved by what was happening. ‘As they say in the movies, don’t call me. As for you…’ her mouth tightened as she glanced contemptuously at Kirsty, ‘I presume you’re some casual pick-up Drew made on the way down here. You look the type. Really, Drew,’ she added coldly as she prepared to sweep out of the suite, ‘you ought to be more careful, especially in these permissive times—these little tarts pick up the most obnoxious social diseases, you know.’

Kirsty winced beneath the venom of her words, unaware of the shocked disbelief in her own eyes as they widened slightly in acknowledgement of the thrust. Events had taken a turn she hadn’t expected.

The silence following Beverley Travers’ furious exit, and her bitter slamming of the door, was a tangible, nerve-aching void, and it took every ounce of courage Kirsty possessed for her to shake her hair nonchalantly over her shoulder and force a blithe smile as she headed for the door.

‘Just a moment.’

She hadn’t expected him to simply let her go, of course. Nor had she wanted him to do so. The whole purpose of the exercise was to prove to him that his judgment of her had been wrong, but even so Kirsty had a craven desire to turn tail and flee.

‘Who the hell are you, and what do you think you’re playing at? Blackmail? If so.…’

He was advancing on her with purposeful menace, and for one appalling moment Kirsty’s mind went completely blank. The clever little speech she had practised until she was word-perfect eluded her completely and she was left scrabbling humiliatingly for words.

‘No… no, it was nothing like that,’ she managed jerkily, and something in her voice must have convinced him, because he stopped advancing on her and instead lounged back against one of the chairs, his expression intent and searching as he demanded tersely,

‘Then what was it like? Some kind of sick joke? Some.…’

To her relief she managed to pull herself together for long enough to get her handbag open and remove the small newspaper clipping she always carried around with her.

‘Remember this?’ she demanded, gathering enough composure to sound almost as terse as he had done himself.

He read the article in silence, handing it back to her.

‘That actress,’ she said unsteadily ‘the one you said would make an excellent typist—that was her first role, my first role,’ she threw at him with bitter passion. ‘And I lost it, because of that review, because of you.…’

He listened to her in complete and unmoving silence, unnerving her with his cool scrutiny, his apparent ability to remain unaffected by what had happened.

‘And so?’

‘And so I decided to prove to you just how convincing an actress I could be,’ she told him triumphantly. ‘Certainly convincing enough for your mistress!’

‘By relying on circumstances rather than ability,’ he told her cruelly. ‘Effective, but by no means convincing.’ His eyes narrowed as he studied her, slowly assessing the tumbled curls and gamine features. ‘I still stand by what I said—you weren’t right for that part, and you didn’t have the ability to make yourself right for it.’

His calm words astounded Kirsty. She had expected him to be furious with her, to rant and rave while she remained cool and aloof, and yet somehow he seemed to have turned the tables on her, by reminding her that she had used circumstances rather than ability to convince Beverley Travers that they were lovers. Impotent anger prompted her to demand rashly, ‘Do you get some sort of kick out of destroying people, out of ruining their lives…?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The emotionless words silenced her. ‘I’m a critic, doing my job, not some sort of a crank on an ego trip. I leave that to the acting profession,’ he jibed mockingly. ‘Thank God they don’t all have your vengeful tendencies! You’ve been reading too much Shakespeare.’ His expression changed suddenly, thick dark lashes veiling his eyes from Kirsty, as he frowned, apparently deep in thought. Now was her chance to leave, Kirsty decided, inching towards the door. She had almost reached it when he moved, reaching it before her to lean against it, his expression cruelly mocking and infinitely dangerous as he asked softly, ‘Going somewhere?’

‘To my room.’ She had intended to sound calmly serene, but even to her own ears her voice had a distinct wobble.

‘After depriving me of the company of my—er—mistress, was the rather antiquated term you used, I believe? Oh no, my dear,’ he drawled with a soft menace that drove the colour from Kirsty’s face. ‘In view of what you’ve just done, I think it’s only fair that you make some sort of reparation, don’t you?’

He looked so calm and controlled, standing there, flint-grey eyes surveying her mockingly, hands in the pockets of the immaculately cut dark trousers, a leashed power about him that warned her that this was no idle threat, despite the enormity of his words. She licked her lips nervously, trying to meet his ironic gaze with a look equally cool and failing miserably, her protesting, ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ sounding more fearful than firm.

‘No? You’re lying—but,’ he told her in an exceedingly dry tone, ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right—you are a better actress than I supposed. Come on,’ he told her in a hard voice. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You’ve deprived me of a bed partner for the night, to put the matter in its crudest terms, and that being the case I think it only fair that you take her place.’

He was mad! Kirsty thought, searching desperately for some means of escaping the suite that didn’t necessitate getting any closer than she already was to that lean, coiled, masculine body, taut with a suppressed violence she was only now beginning to become aware of, so easily had he masked it with his laconic stance and coolly controlled face.

‘You can’t mean that!’ she protested piteously, knowing even as she spoke that it was useless. He had meant it. The sharp flintiness of his glance told her that, the hard implacability of his mouth, and the way it lifted mockingly as he stared down into her flushed and frightened features.

‘Amazing!’ he taunted at last. ‘What a pity I’m your sole audience. That was almost worthy of an Oscar; pity there aren’t any parts for distracted innocents any more, you’d fill the bill to a T.’

‘Please…’ Kirsty had gone beyond reasoning, the dark urgency in her eyes unknowingly piteous as she stared up at him.

‘Please what?’ Drew mocked. ‘Throw a crust to the starving orphan? No way,’ he added in a much harder voice. ‘No one asked you to force your way in here, or act that cute little number you just played. How old are you?’ he demanded curtly. ‘Eighteen—nineteen? As spoiled as they come; used to widening those big brown eyes and having men drown in them, I don’t doubt. Well, it takes more than limpid eyes and a few tears to fool me! If you learn nothing else from this episode, at least you’ll learn not to start what you can’t finish.’

‘You can’t mean this!’ Kirsty protested, her throat closing in horrified realisation that he did, and that all the pleas in the world weren’t going to move him. He was made of solid granite, completely unfeeling, as cold as Arctic ice, impregnable. He must be to even contemplate taking her in place of Beverley Travers. She shuddered, shock taking the last remnants of colour from her face, her mouth drooping, as she sought desperately for some way of convincing him to change his mind. ‘You don’t even know me.…’ she managed at last, hating herself for the childish protest, when he laughed—an unexpectedly warm sound, his mouth curling upwards, tiny creases fanning out from his eyes.

‘Since when has that been a bar to physical satisfaction?’ he asked her coolly. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of instant attraction—love at first sight?’

He was taunting her now, and she hated him for it, her hands curling impotently into her palms as she searched for some stinging retort, something cutting enough to get him away from that door long enough for her to get through it. Too late now to regret her impulsive action, and wish she had never set eyes on him. Too late by far, she acknowledged as the look in his eyes told her he had read her mind and had no intention of letting her get within a yard of the suite door.

‘You can’t want me,’ she burst out childishly at last. ‘You love Beverley Travers!’

‘But because of you she walked out of here,’ he reminded her cruelly, ‘and as for not wanting you.…’

Kirsty’s skin burned as his glance slid slowly over her body, narrowing with devastating explicitness on the softly rounded swell of her breasts, before pinning her to the spot where she stood. ‘I’m a man,’ he told her softly, ‘and you’ve got an extremely sexy body. Just thank your lucky stars that I don’t go in for physical violence—because after what you’ve done tonight, there isn’t a court in the land that wouldn’t acquit me of whatever charge you choose to bring against me.’ His eyes rested contemptuously on the tangled silky curls she had so deliberately disordered. His mute assessment disturbed her.

‘Very effective,’ he drawled at last, ‘but I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve seen you after I’ve made love to you.’

‘Made love!’ Kirsty injected as much scorn as she could into the two words. ‘Don’t you mean raped me, because I certainly won’t.…’

‘Won’t what?’ Drew Chalmers asked silkily, levering himself off the door, and walking towards her with a steely determination mat made her turn and flee blindly in the opposite direction, not caring that it led only to the bedroom of the suite. ‘Respond to me?’

His long legs outpaced her easily, and the breath left her body on a pained gasp as he reached for her, lifting her off her feet, the impotent thud of her small fists against the powerful muscles of his chest hurting her more than it did him.

He carried her as though she weighed no more than a small child, kicking the bedroom door closed behind him, the expression in his eyes as he surveyed the rumpled disorder of his bed making her blood run cold.

‘I think,’ he told her with icy cold clarity, ‘that on this occasion we’ll dispense with the champagne and get on with the matter in hand, don’t you?’

It came to Kirsty then that behind the cool façade, molten anger boiled and that he meant to degrade and punish her, and that what was going to happen to her had nothing to do with a man satisfying his physical desire for another woman and everything to do with a particularly cruel and degrading form of revenge, and all the fighting spirit drained out of her, a suffocating sense of helpless inevitability overwhelming her.

She was dimly aware of Drew Chalmers dropping her ungently on the bed, and then locking the door, before he came towards her.

‘How did you know I would be here tonight?’ he asked casually, as the bed depressed under his lean length, the fine fabric of his pants brushing against the silky slenderness of her legs.

‘I didn’t.’ Kirsty recoiled instinctively from the intimate contact with his body, tensing as his gaze narrowed on the pale triangle of her face.

‘You’re overdoing things,’ he warned her softly. ‘And it won’t work. That frightened virgin act went out years ago—if it was ever in,’ he added cynically. ‘You’re a fraud and a cheat,’ he added softly. ‘You made damned sure you could use circumstances to suit your own ends and did so without a qualm, but when the tables are turned you don’t want to take the nasty medicine, do you? Well, little girl, it’s high time someone showed you that sometimes you have to be forced to take it for your own good!’

It was useless trying to tell him that she had had second thoughts the moment she entered the bedroom of his suite, or that she had, in Shakespearean terms, decided upon her plan of action in a mood best described as ‘pot-valiant’. Now, when the effects of the wine and cocktail had completely worn off she lay rigid with terror on the bed, unable to decide what was worse—her present situation or the humiliation of the one she would find herself in when Drew Chalmers inevitably discovered the truth.

What would he say if she told him that she was a virgin? Call her a liar, she decided bitterly, willing the weak tears she could feel blocking her throat not to fall, but once again the hatefully drawling mockery of his voice told her that he had guessed when she turned her head slightly and it was ruthlessly turned back with fingers that gripped her chin unkindly and held it while the moon silvered her face, revealing her expression to him while his was concealed from her.

‘Crying? Crocodile tears and very pretty, but alas, completely unconvincing. Do you know what the young innocent you’re trying to portray would actually do in your circumstances? Well, she certainly wouldn’t simply lie here, all passive resistance and melting tears,’ he told her brutally, ‘she’d be terrified.’

His brutality broke through the strange calm that had descended on her and she struggled to evade the crushing grip of his fingers on her chin, her eyes darting defiance at him as she stormed bitterly, ‘How do you know? Do you make a practice out of brutalising inexperienced virgins? Is that how you get your kicks? Is that.…’

Her breath was cut off by the sudden fierce pressure of his mouth, as it moved impatiently over hers, stifling her ability to think, swamping her with a terrifying sensation of panic, of swirling blackness and a bottomless pit into which she was being relentlessly drawn.

The tension held her body stiff with rejection; she gulped in air as his head lifted, arms braced against his chest to push him off.

He was breathing heavily, a dark glitter in his eyes, as he said unevenly, ‘The way I get my kicks is by having a warm, responsive woman in my arms, and by God, that’s what you’re going to be, if I have to spend all night making you respond to me!’

He wanted her to respond to him. Kirsty couldn’t understand it, unless it was part of his plan to humiliate her by first arousing her and then rejecting her. She had read about such things, and wondered at them, because so far none of her boy-friends had aroused any feelings in her even approaching such an intensity of feeling, and she was beginning to wonder if they existed only in works of fiction.

‘I never will,’ she told him stubbornly. ‘I hate you!’

‘Hatred is akin to love, or had you forgotten?’ he mocked her, turning her on to her side, one arm curved round her so that her breasts were pressed against the fine silk of his shirt, the hard contact oddly disturbing.

Suddenly it became difficult to breathe normally. Strange sensations vibrated through her, her senses relaying to her an awareness of him that frightened and alarmed her. She could smell the warm maleness of his skin; feel the hardness of sinew and bone beneath the palms she had pressed against his shoulders to fend him off.

‘Why don’t you simply relax and enjoy yourself?’ The self-assured drawl sent shivers of reaction across skin already far too sensitised to his proximity. The arm constraining her moved, and Kirsty breathed a sigh of relief, suddenly suspended as she felt his fingers tugging at her nightdress.

Her instinctive protest froze on her lips as the dark head bent towards her, cool male lips teasing the soft tendrils of hair curling round her forehead, brushing lightly against her skin and evoking a reaction that made her quiver softly. By the time she realised that Drew had eased her nightdress from her shoulders and it was too late for her to do a thing to prevent him, because whichever way she moved, trying to stop him, he outmanoeuvred her, his sudden harsh, ‘Look, if you want me to rip the damn thing off you, just say so,’ freezing her into a tense stillness, her protests dying in her throat as the nightdress was tugged downwards over her hips and discarded to lie in a pool of silk on the floor.

No man had ever seen her in only her underwear before, and she was all too conscious of the rounded smoothness of her breasts against the sculptured lace of her satin bra and matching cami-knickers suddenly glaringly provocative, and colour swept her body as she saw that Drew was looking at her, studying the slender lines of her body with an expression in his eyes that made her heart stand still before racing erratically, its jerky, uneven pace catching at her breath.

‘Beautiful!’ The husky timbre of his voice shivered across her nerve endings, the smoky sensuality darkening his eyes from grey almost to black and making her tremble beneath the explicit appraisal of his glance.

When he bent his head, sweeping aside her hair to touch his lips to her throat, exploring the delicate shape of her ear, Kirsty experienced a small explosion of panic, followed by the undeniable knowledge of her body’s physical response to a touch so sure and knowing that she marvelled that she could ever have imagined she could withstand it. The touch of his hands on her bare arms and midriff triggered off tiny pinpricks of pleasure, each one shivering through her, shocking her afresh. He seemed to know exactly where to kiss and touch. Violence she could have withstood, but not this subtle, sensual attack on her senses, this slowly seductive destruction of all her barriers until her breasts ached to know the possession of those skilled male hands, her lips parting involuntarily, as his tongue teased their trembling shape, the skilled stroking of his hands along her body, making her forget what had originally brought her to his suite, her body in the grip of a feverishly mounting desire that both shocked and fascinated the tiny corner of her

mind which had managed to stand aloof from his expert assault on her senses.

‘That’s better,’ she heard him mutter approvingly, raw sexuality underlining the words as he deftly unfastened her bra, and added throatily, ‘much, much better,’ his eyes feasting on the swelling curves he had just exposed.

She should feel shame, but she didn’t, Kirsty marvelled. Some wild, wanton part of her she had never dreamed existed positively revelled in the hungry intensity of his gaze, but even so, she wasn’t prepared for his husky groan or the sight of the dark head buried against her breasts, his breath ragged and warm against the tender flesh as lean fingers cupped her rounded softness.

‘God, but you’re beautiful! But you already know that, don’t you?’

Kirsty trembled as the coaxing fingers stroked tormentingly over the hard arousal of her nipple, her breathing ragged and shallow at the sensation the sensual caress aroused. Deep down inside her something seemed to be flowering into life, a weak, yielding sensation, curling through her stomach, the hands she had lifted to push Drew away in protest, hesitating until the rough texture of his skin against the acutely sensitised tip of her breast made her fingers curl in mute protest into the softness of his hair, a small cry smothered deep in her throat.

‘God, I want you! Want you, Kirsty Stannard,’ Drew muttered hoarsely as his tongue touched the flesh his thumb had so recently been tormenting. Kirsty’s eyes widened in shock at the exquisite flowering of pleasure his touch evoked, and as though he sensed her feelings, Drew muttered something under his breath, his hand cupping the swollen softness of her before his lips closed gently over the throbbing nipple.

Kirsty closed her eyes, shuddering with the waves of pleasure sweeping her, her whole being given up to concentration on the fierce tide of feeling enveloping her. Small moans of delight trembled past her lips, her whole body shaken with the torrent of sensation. Above her she heard Drew groan savagely, ‘Kirsty—my God, what are you trying to do to me? Touch me, for God’s sake, and stop driving me mad! Can’t you tell how much I want to feel all of you against me?’

Kirsty was beyond thought, beyond reason, swept along on a tide of sensual pleasure; a voyage of discovery which was taking her to a world she had never dreamed existed.

Drew’s lips left her breasts to trail burning kisses over her collarbone and against her throat. He had pulled of his shirt and the rough tangle of body hair on his chest scraped arousingly against the tenderness of her skin. In a daze Kirsty was aware of his removing his pants; of the powerful masculinity of his thighs, the taut muscles, beneath skin darkened with the same crisp hairs that covered his chest. She made no demur when he removed the last of her own clothes, trembling slightly beneath the burning intensity of his gaze, experiencing for the first time the piercing tension of desire.

‘You’re a witch, do you know that?’ she heard Drew demand thickly as his hand rested possessively on the narrow bones of her hips. ‘A witch, and God help me, I want you!’

Kirsty had forgotten that he had promised to make her want him; that the only reason she was here was punishment, and instead, her body gloried in the heady knowledge that she had aroused him; that he wanted her. Innocent though she was, she knew that much; felt it in the taut control of his muscles, saw it in the dark intensity of his eyes as they studied the pale curves of her body; heard it in the husky imprecations he was muttering under his breath, as his hands swept up and moulded her to him, his mouth buried hotly in hers as her arms tightened instinctively around him, her body on fire with a need to melt against him.

When he lifted his mouth it was merely to mutter hoarsely, ‘Kirsty, don’t make me wait any longer—I can’t, God help me. I don’t know what it is about you,’ he added ruefully, ‘but you seem to have turned me into a raw, uncontrolled boy again.’ His hands cupped her face as he turned it up to her own. ‘Forget what I said earlier,’ he told her roughly ‘This isn’t for revenge, or punishment, or anything else. It’s for me,’ he added huskily, ‘for the sheer pleasure of feeling you melt against me, for knowing the delight of your body. Love me, Kirsty,’ he begged throatily, parting her thighs urgently to slide between them, the heated pressure of his mouth silencing every emotion but the need to respond to the demands of his body.

And yet.… The taut masculinity of him was faintly alarming. Her muscles tensed automatically, and Kirsty was aware of him hesitating, checking suddenly, a frown touching his eyes.

He moved against her, almost experimentally, Kirsty thought on a sudden burning wave of embarrassment, and yet it was impossible for her to unlock her inexperienced muscles. Half of her still cried out for fulfilment, but the other half protested that things were moving too far too fast. She felt Drew move away from her, and turned her head, unable to meet his eyes.

‘Well now.’ She was amazed at how calm and controlled he sounded. ‘There are only two reasons for a reaction like that. Either you’re frigid—which we both know isn’t so—or you’re still a virgin. Are you, Kirsty?’ he demanded, suddenly grasping her shoulders and turning her round to face him. ‘And don’t lie to me. Are you?’

‘Does it make any difference?’ Instead of sounding defiant she sounded merely pathetic. Drew swore and she felt tears sting her eyes. An hour ago she would have welcomed this confrontation, welcomed the opportunity to throw her innocence down between them like a gauntlet, but now she felt curiously bereft of the warmth of his body, there was an ache in the pit of her stomach that left her restless and unappeased, and humiliation lay across her mind like a brand because she had betrayed her inexperience so easily, after succumbing so completely to his touch.

‘I suppose I should have known,’ he continued in evident disgust. ‘Only a fool or a complete innocent would have pulled a stunt like that in the first place.’ He pushed impatient fingers through his hair and reached for her clothes.

‘Here, put these on,’ he commanded curtly, cursing softly when her fingers trembled over the slips of silk, turning her round while he fastened the clip of her bra, dressing her with the ruthless efficiency he might have applied to a child, his mouth a thin line as he demanded,

‘Didn’t it ever occur to you what might happen? No, don’t bother answering that,’ he continued in a harsh voice. ‘It’s plain your experience of frustrated males is nil.’

He made her sound like a child, Kirsty thought tiredly, and yet only such a short time before he had been all too prepared to consider her a woman.…

‘Well, perhaps next time you’ll think before you act,’ he was saying, much like a schoolteacher to a backward pupil, and fresh humiliation seared her. What must he think of her?

‘Here!’

He passed her the old dressing gown she had discarded earlier, and while she struggled into it with trembling fingers, Kirsty was aware of him moving about, dressing swiftly.

‘Are you staying at the hotel?’

All she could manage was a nod.

‘Okay, I’ll walk you back to your room. You look as though you could do with a stiff drink first,’ Drew added unflatteringly as he switched on the bedside lamp flooding the room with soft colour.

‘Bit off more than you bargained for, didn’t you? Just out of interest, how far were you prepared to let me go before you finally stopped me, or were you simply looking on it as a good way of broadening your experience?’

Kirsty turned away, but not before he had seen the betraying sheen of tears in her eyes. There was a small explosion of sound and then suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, his voice harsh as he demanded bitingly, ‘You little fool, don’t you realise how close you came to being raped? Has no one ever told you just how damned hard it is for a man to stop when he’s as aroused as you’d got me? The experience might be lacking, but the equipment’s there all right,’ he added sardonically, watching the colour run up under her skin. ‘But next time you feel like experimenting pick on someone your own size.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Kirsty managed on a dignified whisper. ‘It was your idea to… to.…’

‘Make love to you?’ Drew supplied. ‘So it was, but it takes two, you realise, and the kind of response I was getting from you.…’ He broke off suddenly and looked at her. ‘It was the first time, wasn’t it?’ he asked expressionlessly, watching her with cool grey eyes that seemed to see right inside her head and make it impossible for her to lie.

Her, ‘Yes,’ sounded hunted and strangled, and Kirsty couldn’t meet his eyes, sure that she would read amused contempt there for her inexperience.

‘And at a guess you forgot what you were doing in my arms in the first place.’ He seemed to be speaking more to himself than her, and Kirsty was surprised to hear him add dryly, ‘Quite a salutary experience—for both of us. You’re a very desirable young lady, Kirsty Stannard, a very dynamic package, but in future, unless you want to lose that innocence very quickly, stop trying to pretend you’re something you aren’t. Have you any idea how close I came to taking you?’ he asked softly, with no mercy for the quick flood of colour under her skin.

‘Come on,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll walk you to your room, and order a drink from the kitchens for you—something to help you sleep.’

‘I’m not a child!’ Kirsty told him indignantly. ‘I.…’

‘Save it,’ she was advised with dry impatience, followed by a curt, ‘What the devil are your parents thinking about, letting a baby like you loose on the streets?’

‘I’m not a baby,’ Kirsty stormed back at him. ‘I’m twenty!’

‘A very great age,’ Drew taunted. ‘But I’m talking about experience, not age, little girl, and when it comes to the former.…’

‘I’m simply not in the same league as the Beverley Travers of this world,’ Kirsty supplied with a bitterness that surprised her.

‘Nowhere near it,’ Drew assured her mockingly. ‘Now come on, let’s get you tucked up in your little bed, before you go and drive some other unsuspecting male half crazy!’

Those minutes in his arms when he had wanted her so much that he had been tense with the effort on containing it might never have been. All at once she had been relegated to the role of child, and irrationally she resented it.

In the end Drew left her outside her room, but long after he had gone Kirsty lay awake reliving those emotions she had experienced in his arms, shivering at the knowledge that it had taken him to arouse them. A pure fluke, she assured herself, nothing more, and thank God she would never have to set eyes on him again. She didn’t think she could endure the humiliation. Bad enough if he had actually ‘raped’ her, as he described it, but in some ways worse to have been found out and rejected on the grounds of her innocence; to have fallen short of his requirements in a woman and be dismissed merely as a foolish child.

She had heard other people describing virginity as a ‘turn-off, but this was the first time she had come across concrete evidence of the fact. Drew had desired her, she knew that, but the moment he realised that she was still a virgin his desire had gone. Kirsty writhed in a torment of mortified chagrin; somehow the swift death of his desire made her feel a failure as a woman, a freak almost. What was the matter with her? she asked herself. She ought to be thanking her lucky stars. Self-disgust rose up inside her. What on earth had happened to her belief that physical desire was nothing without love? Why had she responded in the first place? Had perhaps fear released an adrenalin into her blood which had led to that warm, yielding tide of desire? That must be the explanation. Feeling happier, Kirsty closed her eyes. If she was honest she was forced to admit that she had been foolish enough to go to Drew Chalmers’ suite, but having done so and endured the after-effects, all she wanted to do now was to put the whole affair behind her, and forget about the incident completely. She could only thank her lucky stars that her path and Drew’s were hardly likely to cross again!

CHAPTER THREE

WAS she dreaming, Kirsty wondered, waiting in the wings for her turn to read, or was she actually here in Yorkshire, ready to go on stage for her first rehearsal as Hero, in Much Ado About Nothing?

She pinched herself just to make sure, reassured by the tingling pain in her arm. So much had happened in such a short period of time; first the failure of her previous play—not exactly unexpected—and then the phone call from her agent, Eve, in London telling her that she was to present herself in Ousebridge in Yorkshire for an audition for the part of Hero.

What had totally floored them both was that the director and producer Simon Bailey had specifically asked for her. He had heard that she might make an excellent Hero from a friend who had seen her on stage, he had told Kirsty with a smile when she had commented a little breathlessly on her good fortune in being invited to audition. Parts like Hero did not come the way of struggling young actresses very often, especially with such prestigious companies as the Ousebridge Players.

‘That was excellent, Kirsty,’ Simon approved as she came off stage. ‘You’re beginning to get the idea. Like I said, I want to get right away from the hackneyed image of Hero, and instil something a little different.’

Her head in the clouds, Kirsty hurried down to the communal dressing room, her mind already on the letter she would write to her parents when she returned to her hotel.

They had been thrilled for her, of course, and her mother had even gone so far as to loan Kirsty her precious Mini for the duration of her stay in Yorkshire.

‘Don’t forget about the party tomorrow, will you, Kirsty?’ Cherry Rivers, the A.S.M., called as she hurried past the open door. ‘All the rest of the cast will be there!’

Simon had already invited her to the get-together party he and his wife were holding for the cast of Much Ado. As he had explained to Kirsty when he initially auditioned her, the Ousebridge had only a very small nucleus of permanent actors, preferring to audition afresh for each play, and because of their excellent reputation they were normally able to obtain some of the more glittering stars of the theatrical world to play their leading roles. For Much Ado