Golden Fever

by Carole Mortimer

  The house in Beverly Hills had seemed as spectacular as usual, the pink and white painted hacienda-style house at the end of the long tree-edged driveway. Her mother had lived in this house for the last fifteen years, much acclaimed by the film world, often not even at home when Clare got there, more often than not on location in some exotic part of the world working on her latest film.

  But she was home today, resting after a gruelling year filming the movie that was taking the world by storm.

  Laughter could be heard coming from the direction of the pool as Clare stepped out of the car, both male and female.

  ‘Your mother had guests for lunch,’ Charles informed her in a deadpan voice. An import from England, he had been with her mother for the last twenty years, his trust and loyalty to his employer never in any doubt.

  Clare had often wondered whether he and her mother had once been lovers, for Charles’ devotion to her mother was almost dog-like, despite her often volatile temper.

  Clare had never known her father; he had apparently been killed in an automobile accident just after she was born. He had been an actor too, as famous as her mother was now, and with two such talented parents she was seriously considering an acting career for herself.

  ‘Thank you, Charles,’ she smiled as he carried her suitcase into her bedroom, moving forward to the balcony once he had left the room. There were about a dozen people sitting around the pool, but only one person actually in the water.

  Her mother was draped decorously on one of the loungers. She was already forty years of age, despite her claim of being thirty. She was wearing a black bikini, two scraps of material that were only just decent, so it was no wonder she didn’t want to get it wet. It would probably dissove in the water! Her beautiful face was partly obscured by huge, round sunglasses, but Clare knew her eyes were deeply brown beneath them, her skin clear and youthful. Her hair was a deep auburn, thick and naturally straight to just below her shoulders, although having seen photographs of her mother as a child Clare knew it was kept that rich red colour by artificial means; her hair was really a mousy brown.

  She considered her mother the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, magnetically so, and she could see the men in the party were all in love with that beauty. All except the man in the pool …

  She looked at him with interest, mainly because he wasn’t one of the men who paid court to her mother. He was swimming the length of the pool with long, easy strokes, black hair plastered over his forehead, worn longer than was fashionable at the moment, although he didn’t look as if fashion particularly bothered him.

  As he swung out of the pool Clare gasped her recognition. Rourke Somerville! He was the man starring with her mother in her latest film, the one everyone was raving about at the moment. One of her friends at school had a poster of him on her bedroom wall, and at the time Clare had thought the picture flattered the actor; now she knew that if anything it understated.

  Rourke Somerville had the physique of an athlete, was tall, extremely so, with wide powerful shoulders, a slim waist, and muscular thighs, his only clothing a pair of black swimming trunks, and by the look of his tan he didn’t always wear them! His legs were long and firmly muscled, the whole of his body covered lightly with black hair.

  As if sensing her scrutiny he suddenly looked up at the balcony she stood on, and Clare quickly ducked back into the room, but not before she had taken in every devastating feature. He had towelled his hair dry on stepping out of the pool, and it now hung in damp waves about his face, as black as night. His brows were the same dark colour, jutting over the deepest blue eyes Clare had ever seen, his lashes long and thick. His nose was long and straight, arrogantly so, his mouth full-lipped, the lower lip sensually so, his jaw square and determined, giving the impression of a haughty disregard for anyone’s wishes but his own. A gold medallion hung about the wide column of his throat, suspended there by a thick, chunky gold chain; even the single piece of jewellery he wore was totally masculine.

  She wanted to go down and join them, to perhaps talk to Rourke Somerville. How jealous Diana would be when she wrote and told her about it! Her friend knew everything about him, his Irish-American parentage, his upbringing in an orphanage until he was sixteen years old, the way he had worked his way up to the top of his profession, until now, at the age of thirty-four, he could pick and choose the parts he played for any fee he demanded.

  In one of the infrequent letters Clare had received from her mother she had been full of praise for her co-star. And it seemed they were still friends, otherwise he wouldn’t have been invited here. She wondered what Perry, her mother’s boy-friend for the last year, would think of that.

  She was in the process of putting on her bikini when the door opened. Already wearing the yellow briefs that matched the top, she had paused to study her body in the full-length mirror before putting on the bra-top. Her breasts were full and pert, the tips rosy peaks, her waist flat and slender, her hips and thighs reed-thin. Until this last year she had had puppy-fat to contend with, and added to her height she had felt like an elephant. Fortunately she had slimmed down, and might even have considered a career in modelling if it weren’t for her full breasts.

  To the man now standing in the doorway she must have looked as if she were blatantly admiring herself. She snatched up the bra of her bikini, clutching it in front of her as she stared at Rourke Somerville in fascinated horror.

  His gaze was frankly appraising as he came farther into the room, closing the door behind him, still wearing only the brief black trunks. ‘I thought I hadn’t imagined you,’ he murmured, his voice having a magical lilt to it that charmed without effort. ‘Where have you been hiding yourself?’ he asked huskily.

  ‘I—Why, nowhere.’ But she wished she could hide herself now, knowing this man had taken in every naked inch of her—and by the glint in his eyes he had liked what he saw!

  He walked slowly over to where she was, unsuccessfully, trying to hide herself, plucking the bikini top out of her nervous fingers, holding her hands down at her sides as he slowly looked at her. The eyes he finally raised to hers had flickering flames lighting their deep blue depths. ‘I’ve certainly never met you before,’ he said throatily.

  Clare licked her lips, not realising how provocative the movement was. ‘You haven’t?’ she delayed, her embarrassment fading, and a languorous warmth starting to invade her lower limbs under his avid gaze, her eyes the colour of rich, molten gold.

  Rourke Somerville smiled, his teeth very white against his tanned skin. ‘I would have remembered you,’ he murmured, releasing her hands to run his fingertips lightly over the flatness of her stomach, a devil entering his eyes as his hands came to rest at the top of her bikini briefs. He laughed softly in his throat as he heard her catch her breath, those sensuous hands moving up towards her breasts now, his gaze fixed firmly on her flushed face, smiling as he watched her reaction to his caresses.

  She flinched as he touched her breasts. Ten years of convent education had not prepared her for the sensuality of this man. The nearest the nuns had ever come to discussing sex had been in the Biology class, and then it had only been mentioned briefly as part of life’s cycle.

  But this man was everything the nuns had ever warned her about in a man—and everything the other girls had ever whispered about in their secret fantasies!

  ‘Please don’t do that!’ She shuddered as his hands resumed their exploration of her lower body.

  He raised heavy lids. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because—well, because—’

  He shook his head. ‘But I want to touch you. You’re like sunshine, do you know that?’ One of his hands moved to cup her chin, rubbing his thumb caressingly over her lips. ‘Young, fresh, and bright.’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘No need to ask, Sunshine,’ he said huskily, his head bending towards hers. ‘I have no intention of leaving this room until I’ve at least kissed you.’

  Dating boys hadn’t exactly been en
couraged at the convent, although Clare had had her fair share of dates. But they had been with boys, boys of her own age, and Rourke Somerville was definitely a man, in every sense of the word.

  As his mouth moved druggingly over hers he pulled her thighs in between his, their bathing suits no barrier to the throb of Rourke’s body, and her lips parted willingly beneath his.

  His hands moved beneath her bikini to cup her heated flesh, moving his thighs against her as he held her steady, leaving her in no doubt of his full arousal.

  Clare panicked. Everything was moving too fast for her inexperience, and she wrenched her mouth away from, his, pushing at his hands. ‘Please—stop!’ She looked at him with darkened eyes. ‘Stop …’ she groaned as his lips moved to the sensitive cord in her throat.

  ‘You don’t really want me to do that,’ he taunted softly. ‘And I don’t want to either.’

  ‘But I do!’ she cried, finally managing to push him away, her breathing heavy as she escaped his arms. Rourke watched the heaving of her breasts until she snatched up the blouse she had worn for the flight, pulling it on over her nakedness.

  Rourke shrugged, making no effort to hide the arousal of his own body. ‘What’s the panic?’ he shrugged.

  She gave him an angry glare. ‘The panic is that you shouldn’t be in here.’ And he certainly shouldn’t have touched her the way he had! Her skin still tingled from the contact.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because—You just shouldn’t!’ she said angrily, knowing that while she might tell Diana she had met Rourke Somerville, she would never tell her what else had happened between them.

  His eyebrows rose. ‘You aren’t the maid or something, are you?’

  ‘Of course not!’ She flushed.

  ‘Of course not.’ He looked pointedly around the luxurious bedroom she was occupying, the totally feminine lemon and white decor. ‘Darling, anyone who comes to one of Carlene’s parties knows the score,’ he drawled.

  Clare blinked hard. ‘They—they do?’

  ‘Mm,’ he nodded. ‘Anything goes—and I mean anything. So if we choose to spend the rest of the afternoon in bed together no one is going to mind.’

  ‘No!’ She backed away as he advanced, more shocked by what he was saying than she wanted him to know. Did her mother really give parties like that?

  ‘Why not?’ His deep blue eyes narrowed. ‘Or is one of those guys downstairs yours’?’

  ‘Guys? Downstairs …? Oh no,’ she realised he meant the other men by the pool. ‘No,’ she shook her head firmly.

  ‘Then what’s wrong?’ His mouth twisted. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t like me!’

  She knew she deserved his mockery. Of course she couldn’t deny liking him, she hadn’t exactly screamed the place down when he had kissed and caressed her. And this man was too experienced with women not to know she had responded totally to him.

  ‘No …’ she acknowledged faintly.

  ‘And I certainly like you. Relax, beautiful,’ he grinned, his hands lightly grasping the tops of her arms to pull her slowly towards him. ‘If you want to take it slow we’ll take it slow,’ he shrugged. ‘But not here. Let’s go back to my place, relax—you can even sunbathe nude if you want to,’ he added throatily. ‘I often do.’

  He was only confirming what she had already guessed, and the transition from the convent to nude sunbathing was too much of a shock for her to do anything else but blush.

  Rourke’s eyes narrowed on her fiery cheeks. ‘Who are you?’ he asked in a puzzled voice, his hands dropping away from her arms.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Rourke? Rourke, where are you?’

  His mouth twisted as he half turned towards the door. ‘Our beautiful hostess,’ he drawled. ‘Which means I’d better get out of here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clare agreed, her eyes wide, terrified her mother was going to come in here and find her in a state of undress with Rourke Somerville. He might claim that her mother gave wild parties, but she had never seen any evidence of them; her mother was very strict about her behaviour whenever she was at home.

  Rourke shrugged. ‘Maybe the daughter’s arrived from the convent. You have her to thank for not being able to show us all that beautiful body of yours.’

  She gulped. ‘I—I do?’

  He nodded. ‘Mm. Carlene ordered bathing suits to be worn in her daughter’s honour.’

  Did that mean they usually bathed nude …? Including her mother? No, she couldn’t believe that. And this man obviously didn’t realise that she was ’the daughter’ who was spoiling all his fun.

  ‘You’d better go,’ she advised softly.

  ‘Yes,’ he sighed, looking impatient. ‘Are you coming down to join us?’

  ‘I—In a minute.’ When she had recovered from the shock of the last fifteen minutes!

  He strolled casually over to the door, tall and lithe, moving with an animal grace that was totally sensual. ’I’ll be waiting for you,’ he said softly. ‘And don’t forget the rest of your bikini—we wouldn’t want to shock the child.’

  Clare’s mouth compressed in consternation as Rourke Somerville left the room. How old did he think she was, for goodness’ sake!

  Her sense of humour got the better of her, and she giggled at the idea of the little girl he expected her to be. How surprised he was going to be when he found out he had just been making love to ’the child’!

  But it wasn’t really funny, and she sobered instantly. Rourke Somerville had touched her intimately, hadn’t expected her to be surprised by his behaviour. Just what sort of man was he? And what sort of girl did he think she was!

  She had all her bikini on when her mother entered the room a few minutes later, running to meet her with a tiny sob. She hadn’t seen her mother for almost a year because she had been busy filming, and yet she found her little changed, her beauty as youthful as ever.

  ‘Mummy!’ She hugged her, feeling ridiculously tearful.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ her mother greeted in her offhand voice. ‘Don’t cling, Clare, it’s much too hot for body contact.’ She stepped away from Clare, her sunglasses now pushed back into her hair.

  Her mother’s words reminded her of the body contact she had just had with Rourke Somerville, and she felt suddenly shy. ‘You’re looking well, Mummy,’ she said awkwardly, feeling tall and gauche against her mother’s petite beauty and grace.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ Carlene looked pleased by the compliment. ‘And so are you,’ she frowned, tiny lines appearing at the sides of her eyes. ‘When did you grow to be so—attractive?’

  Clare gave a happy laugh, flushing her pleasure. ‘I’ve slimmed down, that’s all.’

  ‘No, that isn’t all!’ Her mother’s voice was sharp. ‘Oh well, never mind,’ she dismissed irritably. ‘Gene’s waiting for you downstairs.’

  Clare’s face lit up with excitement. Gene was Perry’s son, and the two of them had dated casually the last time she was home. It would be lovely to see him again.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen—No,’ her mother answered her own question, ’I don’t suppose you have. Come along, Clare, I can’t neglect my guests any longer.’

  The two of them walked down the stairs together, totally different to look at, both startlingly beautiful, although Clare would never have guessed that her own youthful beauty far outshone that of her mother. In her opinion no one could be as beautiful as her mother. All her life she had been in awe of that beauty, and now was no different.

  ‘Seen who, Mummy?’ she asked casually.

  ‘What?’ Her mother seemed preoccupied. ‘Oh, one of the guests seems to have wandered off. I didn’t know if you’d seen him.’

  So she was still looking for Rourke. Maybe he had left; he seemed to have been bored by the party. But he had said he would be waiting for her, and somehow she believed he would be.

  The two women stepped into the pool area together, one with hair like sunshine, her youthful perfection giving her a feline grace, the other with
hair like flame, a woman conscious that her own beauty was beginning to fade—and determined to hang on to it, and the power it gave her, at all costs.

  ‘Hello …’

  Clare instantly recognised that husky purr, and turned apprehensive eyes on Rourke Somerville. He had a drink in his hand now, a long, slim glass that contained some form of alcohol, she felt sure. And his hair was completely dry now, loose black curls that lay in complete disorder across his brow, giving him a rakish attraction that made her pulses race.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Rourke.’ It was her mother who answered him, slipping her arm into the crook of his. ‘I thought you’d gone, darling,’ she added throatily, looking very small and feminine against his broad masculinity.

  He looked down at her with amused indulgence. ‘And miss meeting your beautiful guest?’ His deep blue gaze caught and held Clare’s gold one, and her breathing was suddenly constricted.

  Her mother frowned, her normally smooth brow creased into lines of puzzlement. ‘Guest? What guest—? Oh, you mean Clare,’ she snapped her irritation.

  Rourke ignored her, his gaze slowly caressing Clare, his mouth curved into an intimate smile, as if they shared a secret.

  She blushed scarlet, knowing that because of her behaviour with him earlier he had a right to look at her in that—knowing way.

  ‘If that’s her name, yes,’ he answered her mother but continued to look at her, his gaze on her mouth almost a caress.

  ‘Well, it is,’ her mother’s voice was sharp. ‘And she isn’t a guest.’

  His eyes narrowed, his expression wary now. ‘She isn’t?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘Of course not. This is my daughter,’ he was informed almost angrily.

  Her mother had all of his attention now; all the lazy sensuality disappeared as he looked from one to the other of them, apparently trying to see some sign of likeness between them. Clare knew he would find none. She took after her father, Drew Anderson, both of them being tall and fair. Even her features were nothing like her mother’s, her mother having an almost elfin beauty, while her own features were more regular and rounded.