Red Rose For Love

by Carole Mortimer

  '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 dressingroom. 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 mat 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 hi 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 hav
e 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 naive fool she had been then, could resist.

  She had been singing In a dab out of town the first time she saw ban, 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 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 naive, naive 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 naivete 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 bad 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-m-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 ail 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 her
e 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.