Golden Fever

by Carole Mortimer

  Now he frowned. ‘This is ‘‘little Clare’’?’ he derided.

  Her mother flushed. ‘Yes.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘She’s hardly little, Carlene.’

  Her mother’s laugh sounded forced. ‘She is rather tall—’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about her height,’ Rourke drawled, his gaze frankly admiring on Clare’s curves.

  ‘Really, Rourke,’ her mother’s voice was brittlely light now, ’you can’t flirt with my daughter!’

  His mouth tightened grimly, his eyes becoming hard. ‘No, I can’t,’ he agreed tautly, extricating himself from her hand. ‘I have to go now, Carlene—’

  ‘Oh, not yet, Rourke,’ she pouted provocatively. ‘Stay to dinner, everyone else is.’

  ‘It isn’t possible,’ he refused smoothly. ‘I have another appointment this evening.’

  Clare’s eyes widened; she knew this statement to be untrue. He had invited her to spend the evening with him, so he certainly didn’t have another appointment. He looked at her in challenge, as if daring her to dispute his claim, but she remained silent.

  ‘Oh, Rourke,’ her mother chided disappointedly.

  ‘Oh, Carlene!’ he taunted.

  ‘Tomorrow, then?’ her mother insisted.

  ‘We’ll see.’ He was noncommittal. ‘Miss Walters,’ he nodded in Clare’s direction, already turning to go and change when she corrected him.

  ‘Anderson,’ she said huskily.

  Blue eyes swung back in her direction. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he drawled.

  She drew herself up to her full height, still only on a level with his nose. ‘My name is Anderson, Mr Somerville,’ she told him coolly. ‘Clare Anderson.’

  ‘I see,’ he mocked. ‘I’ll remember that for future reference.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll meet again,’ she snapped, unable to stop herself. Heavens, he was so arrogant! How dared he treat her mother so casually!

  His eyes narrowed as he sensed her resentment. ‘Oh, I think we will, Clare. In fact, I’m sure of it.’

  She felt relieved when he at last moved towards the house to change, and turned gratefully as someone called her name.

  ‘Gene!’ she smiled recognition of the tall sun-bronzed boy standing in front of her. He hadn’t changed at all, was still as good-looking as ever, his blond hair sun-bleached, his eyes a deep attractive brown, wearing only a pair of cut-off denims, his body lean and suntanned.

  ‘Hello, beautiful!’ He didn’t stand on ceremony, but picked her up to swing her round, kissing her soundly on the mouth.

  After being with Gene for ten minutes it was as if she had never been away; the two of them were once again enjoying each other’s company. Perry smiled at them indulgently; a man in his mid-forties, very handsome, with prematurely iron-grey hair, liking the fact that his son and the daughter of the woman he loved liked each other.

  ‘Rourke’s leaving, darling,’ her mother called Perry over to them.

  Clare couldn’t resist looking at Rourke Somerville once more, to find him looking at her too, a lazily amused smile curving his lips. She hurriedly looked away again, but not before she had noticed everything about him, his hair a riot of black curls, a deep blue silk shirt fitting snugly across his chest and flat stomach, tucked into the low waistband of his white trousers. He held a pair of sunglasses in his hand as he talked to her mother and Perry, even such a simple movement looking sensual on this man.

  With a mocking nod in her direction he was gone—and with him went all the fun and gaiety of the party, or so it seemed to Clare.

  The next few days were spent mainly in Gene’s company, their days being spent at Malibu Beach, where Gene spent most of his time on his surf board, although the waves hardly seemed high enough to accommodate him. But he enjoyed it, and Clare found it relaxing to be in his company. Their evenings were spent going to one party after another, renewing old acquaintances for Clare, and often making new ones. It was at one of these parties that she met Rourke for the second time.

  She hadn’t completely forgotten him, but she had pushed the thought of him to the back of her mind. He hadn’t been to the house any more, and her mother never mentioned him, so it was hard to find out anything about him. Not that she was altogether sure she wanted to find out anything about such a dangerous man; just remembering the way he had looked at her sending shivers of apprehension down her spine. And his words that they would meet again had sounded almost like a threat to her sensitive ears.

  It was almost a week later that Gene and she were at yet another party, the only thing making this one different from the others being that Rourke Somerville had arrived shortly after eleven o’clock, a beautiful blonde on his arm, a woman that Clare instantly recognised as Livia Marriott, an actress known for her more ’revealing’ roles. The last film she had made had been banned in many parts of the world, and it seemed she was no less daring in her private life, the black dress she almost had on having no back at all and hardly any front.

  Rourke was dressed almost as casually, his white trousers skin-tight, his black shirt almost completely unbuttoned, the hair visible on his chest thick and dark.

  Clare tried not to notice him and his affectionate partner, but it was impossible not to. When they danced together they almost made love, and when they didn’t dance Livia Marriott draped herself so sensuously over Rourke that they might as well have been making love then too.

  She looked away, shocked by their behaviour, although no one else seemed to be taking the least bit of notice. Some of the other women in the room even looked jealous of the full-breasted actress—probably wishing themselves in her place, Clare thought disgustedly.

  ‘Why the frown?’

  Once again Rourke had caught her unawares, leaning casually against the wall as she sat in a corner waiting for Gene to return from dancing with one of their friends.

  She blushed. ‘I didn’t see you, Mr Somerville,’ she said stiltedly.

  He moved to sit on the side of her armchair, much too close for comfort, smelling of some spicy, masculine cologne. ‘So the frown wasn’t for me?’ he asked throatily.

  Clare moved uncomfortably, sure that he must be able to see straight down the low neckline of her cream halter-necked dress. And the frown had been for him, for his blatant behaviour with the young actress. ‘I didn’t say that, Mr Somerville,’ she told him stiffly, her years at the convent preventing her telling a deliberate lie.

  ‘Oh?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘What did I do this time?’

  ‘This time?’ She blinked her puzzlement, licking her lips nervously.

  Rourke watched the movement, and those flames started to leap in his eyes once again. ‘Do you do that on purpose?’ he rasped.

  Clare frowned. ‘Do what?’

  He gave her a disbelieving look, his mouth twisting derisively. ‘Never mind,’ he dismissed scathingly. ‘So, what did I do?’

  ‘I—Why, nothing.’ She went to stand up, totally unnerved by his closeness, but Rourke’s hand on her arm stopped her. ‘Let me go,’ she requested softly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why …?’

  ‘Yes. You know you don’t want me to really,’ his eyes teased her. ‘You aren’t what I expected ‘‘little Clare’’ to look like. Not at all,’ he added mockingly.

  She already knew that! ’What did you expect, Mr Somerville, white socks and a gymslip?’ she flashed, resenting the hold on her arm that wouldn’t be shaken.

  His mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Now there’s a thought,’ he leered wickedly.

  Clare tried to be annoyed, but her humour got the better of her as she burst out laughing. ‘The nuns would be shocked,’ she giggled.

  Rourke’s eyes darkened appreciatively. ‘I’m sure they would.’ He stood up in one fluid movement. ‘Let’s dance,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘Oh, but I—Miss Marriott?’

  He smiled. ‘So that’s what I did wrong. Livia is busy—seducing a director.’

  Clare’s eyes
widened. ‘Don’t you mind?’

  ‘Should I?’ He sounded bored.

  ‘Well, I—You came here together!’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you—well, you—’

  He shrugged. ‘Livia and I make no claims on each other. Does Gene have any claim on you?’ His eyes were narrowed.

  ‘Gene …?’ she repeated in bewilderment.

  ‘The beautiful young daughter of Carlene Walters and the son of Perry Lester have been seen together all over L.A., at the beach, at restaurants, at parties,’ he added pointedly. ‘Didn’t you know you’re the talk of the town?’

  ‘No,’ her face was scarlet with embarrassment. ‘Gene and I are just friends—’

  Rourke gave a mocking laugh. ‘Now where have I heard that before?’ he taunted.

  Clare blushed. ‘I don’t think you’re a very nice person, Mr Somerville.’

  ‘I hope not,’ he still smiled.

  ‘You’re impossible!’ She spluttered with laughter, finding this outrageous man more and more attractive by the minute.

  ‘I hope I’m that too,’ he nodded. ‘Now, shall we dance?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she accepted shyly.

  ‘I thought you were never going to agree,’ he groaned, taking her to the dance area before pulling her unresistingly into his arms.

  Not an inch separated them as they slowly danced to the music, Clare resting her head on Rourke’s shoulder, her arms about his neck as his hands rested possessively on her hips.

  ‘Now aren’t you glad you didn’t become a nun?’ he murmured in amusement, his lips warm against her earlobe.

  Clare smiled. ‘There was never any chance of that.’ She respected the wishes of the Sisters to shut themselves away from the world, from the love of a flesh-and-blood man, but she knew it wasn’t for her. She enjoyed being kissed, being held, and she knew that one day she wanted a husband and children to take care of.

  ‘No,’ Rourke gave a throaty chuckle, one of his hands exploring the curve of her spine now. ‘No, I don’t suppose there was.’

  For some reason she didn’t like the way he said that, and she stiffened in his arms before moving away from him. ‘I think I’d like to return to Gene now,’ she said stiltedly.

  Blue eyes narrowed with displeasure, his lashes ridiculously long for a man. ‘And if I don’t want you to?’

  Her brows rose with more calm than she was feeling. ‘Should it matter to me what you want?’

  She was surprised at her own coolness, her pulse fluttering erratically just to look at him. But she had seen the way her mother handled men, and she knew that if she showed Rourke how nervous he really made her feel he would tease her unmercifully—worse, he would know how deeply she was attracted to him.

  And she was attracted, very much so. She had known it the moment she saw him again; a nervous fluttering was beginning in the pit of her stomach, an excited flush coming to her cheeks. And she could quite cheerfully have scratched Livia Marriott’s eyes out for the way she kept touching him, pressing herself against him while he looked on in amusement.

  It was that amusement that attracted too, the challenge his contemptuous attitude towards women gave every female who so much as looked at him. And he was contemptuous. He found women amusing, playthings, and to her shame Clare knew that she would like to act just as clinging as the other women in his life. But she wouldn’t. She might only be eighteen, lack the experience to control a man like this, but she was sensible enough to know that Rourke Somerville enjoyed the chase more than the capture. With a maturity beyond her years she knew that he was intrigued by her, that he found the contradictions of her sun-kissed appearance and her convent upbringing a challenge he had never faced before.

  ‘It matters to me what you want,’ he answered her now. ‘Do you want me?’

  His direct approach was too much for her, and she blushed a deep red. ‘Certainly not!’ she replied in a shocked voice.

  ‘I want you.’

  Clare swallowed hard. ‘You—you do?’

  ‘Mm,’ he nodded, his eyes warm on her lips. ‘When can I have you?’

  ‘You can’t!’ She moved completely away from him. ‘Excuse me, Mr Somerville, I have to get back to Gene.’

  He shrugged philosophically, letting her go without a word of protest. Clare couldn’t decide whether she was piqued or relieved at his easy acceptance of her departure from his side. In the end she decided she was piqued. She hadn’t been so clever after all; Rourke regarded her with just as much amusement as he did every other woman he came into contact with.

  She found Gene out by the pool, and her eyes widened as she saw there were several people in the water—all of them completely naked, male and female alike!

  Gene put his arm protectively about her shoulders. ‘Time to leave, I think,’ he grinned.

  ‘I’m not a prude, you know,’ she snapped, still raw from Rourke’s casual treatment.

  ‘Hey, I know that,’ Gene chided. ‘But it’s getting late. And I make it a rule never to get involved in this sort of scene. It can only get worse,’ he grimaced. ‘Let’s leave.’

  Clare was secretly relieved by his decision, although she remained outwardly calm, waiting in the spacious hallway while Gene went in search of her jacket.

  ‘Leaving already?’ remarked an all too familiar voice.

  Her hands clenched at her sides, but she faced Rourke coolly enough, tall and beautiful, the cream colour of her dress giving her skin a golden glow, her hair like burnished gold as it hung straight to her shoulders, the fringe winged back over her tawny eyes.

  They were strangely alone out here, as the rest of the party were in the spacious lounge and pool area. Rourke looked dark and disturbing—mainly disturbing, all amusement gone now as he continued to look at her, his eyes a deep, dark blue.

  ‘The fun’s just beginning,’ he added in a murmur, standing perhaps six feet away from her, his masculinity a tangible thing.

  Clare’s mouth twisted derisively. ‘It depends on what you call fun,’ she drawled, pleased with herself as she managed to infuse just the right amount of contempt into her voice.

  One dark eyebrow rose, and Rourke moved several steps forward, standing only inches away from her now. ‘And what’s your idea of fun, Clare?’ he asked huskily.

  She maintained a calm exterior with effort, inside her emotions in complete turmoil. No man had the right to have so much animal magnetism, not and be allowed loose among the susceptible female population—of which she was one.

  She felt sure he would be riveting on the big screen. She had never personally seen any of his films, but Diana had seen every one several times, exclaiming over the sexuality he brought into the roles he played.

  ‘Certainly not what’s going on in there,’ she nodded in the direction of the pool.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ she blushed. ‘I prefer a—a one-on-one basis,’ she added bravely.

  ‘So do I.’ He took another step forward, fitting his body against hers, each hard contour evident against her softer curves. ‘Do you have to go?’ he asked throatily.

  ‘I—Yes.’ Excited colour heightened her cheeks, a fevered look to her eyes. Gene often kissed her, touched her in a casual way—but there was nothing casual about Rourke’s touch, and heat coursed through her body as she began to tremble.

  ‘Do you really?’ he said huskily, slowly bending his head to claim her mouth for the second time since she had known him.

  It was just as nerve-shattering as before, the slow, drugging movement of his lips on hers, the erotic way he ran his hands over her bare back, her flesh seeming to tingle where he touched.

  ‘Stay, Clare,’ he breathed against her mouth.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Stay!’ he urged, his mouth more urgent this time, telling her better than words of his desire for her. ‘Or better still,’ he raised his head to groan, ’come home with me.’

  The warning bells began ringing more strongly where this man
was concerned, and she reluctantly pulled away from him. A look of angry irritation flitted across his hard face before it was quickly masked by his usual look of cynicism, telling her that it was a long time since any woman had turned him down.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ she drawled confidently, ’you aren’t the man I want to be one-on-one with.’

  Anger blazed in the deep blue eyes before it was quickly controlled. ‘Are you telling me Gene Lester is?’ he mocked insultingly.

  She raised her brows in cool query, sure that she had a vocation for acting—if this performance were anything to go by? Rourke was completely taken in by her blasé attitude. ‘Is there any reason why he shouldn’t be?’ she asked distantly.

  Rourke scowled. ‘He’s too damned young for you!’

  ‘He happens to be twenty.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘And you’re eighteen going on thirty-five!’

  He was being deliberately insulting, she knew that, but was that really how she appeared to him? He made it sound as if she were too experienced for Gene. She might have responded to Rourke’s kisses, but she didn’t think that was any basis on which to make such an assumption about her.

  ‘Clare!’ Gene, luckily, arrived at her side at that moment, placing her lightweight jacket about her bare shoulders. ‘How are you, Rourke?’ he greeted the other man with his usual friendly manner.

  ‘Fine,’ the other man answered tersely. ‘I think I’ll get back to the party.’

  Clare knew this last was added for her benefit, making her wonder if he were about to join in the nude bathing. Livia Marriott had already been in the pool! An angry sparkle lit up her eyes. Well, let him! Why should she care? And no doubt the beautiful actress, or one of the other women here, would be sharing his bed later tonight. No matter how she denied it that gave her a painful wrench in her chest.

  ‘I’d stay away from him if I were you,’ Gene remarked on the drive back to her home.

  She looked at him with startled eyes. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Rourke Somerville is bad news for any girl, but especially you.’

  Clare frowned. ‘Why especially me?’ she snapped.

  Gene gave her a sideways glance, smiling. ‘You’re such an innocent—’