Golden Fever

by Carole Mortimer

  Clare knew he was trying to infuse lightness into the conversation, so she gave him a strained smile. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Nowhere.’ He turned the car into a long driveway. ‘We’re there.’ He switched off the ignition before getting out of the car.

  Clare joined him after he had opened the door for her. They were at a beach house—at Malibu Beach! All the times she had been here with Gene the last few weeks, and Rourke had lived here all the time!

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen you,’ he answered her unasked question, opening the door to switch on all the lights, going inside he threw his car keys down on the coffee table. ‘You make a handsome couple,’ his mouth twisted. ‘A golden couple.’

  She looked about her appreciatively, loving the informality of her surroundings. Books and magazines lay on the furniture and wooden floor, scatter rugs on the latter; the furniture was all wicker, gay coloured cushions adding to its attractiveness. A corridor to the right of the room seemed to lead to the bedrooms, and two large glass doors opened out on to the patio area that overlooked the ocean. Rourke moved to open them, the breeze cool, the lights from the beach-house reflecting on the water.

  She looked back at Rourke. ‘Gene and I are only friends—I told you.’

  ‘So you did,’ he nodded. ‘If you would like to strip off to your bikini I’ll go and change.’

  Clare walked out to the patio area once he had gone off to his bedroom, liking the simplicity with which Rourke had decorated his home. It wasn’t exactly what she had been expecting, being used to the more luxurious homes of her mother’s other friends. But she was glad Rourke lived less opulently; she hated the artificiality she had discovered this time she was home. It was a relief just to be somewhere she could relax.

  By the time Rourke joined her, wearing navy blue swimming trunks, she had taken off her denims and tee-shirt to reveal the yellow bikini she wore underneath.

  His eyes darkened as he looked at her. ‘Do you do it on purpose?’ he asked as he joined her on the patio, sitting down on the lounger next to hers.

  ‘Do what on purpose?’ She blinked her puzzlement.

  ‘Wear yellow or gold. Are you trying to create an image?’

  ‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Although it wouldn’t be a bad idea. No, I always wear clothes that reflect my mood—bright colours mean I’m happy,’ she told him truthfully.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said huskily. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He looked at her intently. ‘Do you take drugs?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she gasped her shock. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Never,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘It wouldn’t be so unusual,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘Everyone connected with this business seems to be addicted to something—drugs, booze, sex, or maybe just power,’ he shrugged dismissively.

  ‘I don’t need to ask which one you’re addicted to!’

  ‘Don’t you?’ His eyes were cold.

  ‘No!’

  He gave a weary sigh. ‘You don’t even know me, Clare. And you shouldn’t make snap judgments about people.’ He stood up, holding out his hand to her. ‘Let’s go and swim.’

  She put her hand into his, allowing him to pull her to her feet, frowning heavily. Rourke was turning out to be much more complex than she had realised; the lazy charm he presented to the world hid a man of many facets, not least his derision for a lot of his fellow-actors.

  ‘Clare?’ he interrupted her disturbing thoughts.

  She looked up at him, forcing a smile to her suddenly stiff lips. ‘Let’s go and swim,’ she agreed brightly.

  He seemed about to say something else, then changed his mind, running agilely down the patio steps down on to the beach, pulling her with him.

  She was laughing breathlessly by the time they reached the water’s edge.

  ‘Won’t it be cold now that the sun’s gone down?’ She hung back.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied happily. ‘It’s nicer this way. And there are no noisy tourists to spoil the peace and quiet.’

  Clare tentatively followed him into the water, gasping with shock. ‘It’s freezing!’

  ‘Of course it isn’t,’ he chuckled, ducking completely under the water, his bronzed shoulders glistening as he stood up again. ‘Don’t be a baby,’ he encouraged.

  She gently lowered herself beneath the water, shuddering as she stood up again. ‘Have you lived here long?’ she shivered.

  ‘Oh, I don’t live here—at least, not all the time, and not at all as far as the general public is concerned. I have a house in Bel Air.’

  ‘Up on the hill?’

  ‘Up on the hill,’ he nodded. ‘Now, did you come out here to swim or talk?’

  Neither, if the truth be known. And some of what she was feeling must have shown on her face, for Rourke moved towards her with a muttered groan of her name. He pulled her effortlessly into his arms and his mouth came down to claim hers.

  Clare curved herself shamelessly against him, the force of the water propelling them even closer together, almost knocking her off balance as she clung to him. But Rourke stood as firm as a rock, supporting her weight against him, all the time plundering her mouth with ruthless insistence.

  She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her, knew that he was as deeply affected as she was. His lips moved slowly over her throat as she caressed his back and shoulders, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath her fingertips, then she groaned deeply in her throat as his mouth once more possessed hers. Rourke’s hands moved pleasurably over her body, over her hips, her waist and navel, one hand moving to cup her breast over the silky material of her bikini top.

  Her pulse raced, her breath came in short gasps as he pushed the material aside to capture the firm contours of her breast, his fingertips lingering on the hardened nipple.

  ‘I want to touch you, really touch you,’ he gasped, swinging her up in his arms to carry her out of the water, laying her gently down on the sand before quickly joining her.

  Her arms went about his neck as she pulled him down to her, her legs entwined with his as his body pinned her to the sand. She felt the catch released in the centre of her breasts, the top discarded as Rourke’s mouth moved down to capture one hardened nipple between his teeth.

  She had never known such ecstasy, had never dreamt there was such pleasure, holding Rourke against her as he slowly sucked and licked her breast. The rest of her body arched for those pleasure-giving lips, and she gasped as her other breast was captured in the warmth of his mouth, the nipple seeming to throb.

  She was lost in such mindless pleasure that it seemed only natural, only right when his hand moved beneath her bikini briefs. But her eyes flew open in alarm as he touched her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she gasped, stricken.

  He frowned down at her with puzzled irritation. ‘I’m loving you,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I—But—’ she licked her suddenly dry lips. ‘No,’ she shook her head, her eyes wide.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No!’

  Rourke drew a deep controlling breath. ‘No,’ he agreed with a sigh, rolling off her to lie back on the sand, his arm thrown over his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Clare,’ he murmured.

  She swallowed hard, still breathing heavily herself, shocked by her behaviour. So much for her assertion that she didn’t make love on the first date! It was only because of Rourke’s control that they weren’t making love now.

  Suddenly he stood up, bending down to fasten her top before picking her up in his arms and walking into the water. When he had waded in deep enough he let her go.

  Clare came up spluttering, indignation in every line of her body. ‘What did you do that for?’ she asked crossly, pushing the wet hair out of her eyes.

  It was obvious from his own wet hair that he had ducked under the water himself. ‘We both needed cooling off,’ he said grimly. ‘Come on, I think it’s time I took you home.’ He walked out
on to the sand and back up to the house.

  Clare slowly followed him, finding he had already disappeared into his bedroom by the time she got there, and towelled herself dry as best she could. She took the top off and pulled on her tee-shirt, not bothering to remove the briefs but pulling her denims on over the top of them. Her clothes clung to her damply.

  But she needn’t have worried; Rourke didn’t even glance at her when he returned, his denims and tee-shirt as casual as her own, and picked up his car keys, ready to leave.

  Clare felt tongue-tied on the drive back to her home, embarrassed at her inadequacy as a lover. Rourke had only been touching her, admittedly intimately, but considering she was supposed to be experienced she had behaved childishly.

  ‘You aren’t going to see me again, are you?’ she said dully as he stopped the car in her mother’s driveway.

  Rourke turned to look at her, lifting a tendril of her damp hair. ‘What makes you think that?’ he murmured huskily.

  ‘Well, I—Just now, I blew it, didn’t I?’

  He gave a mocking smile. I’m the one who almost did that. You warned me not on the first date.’

  Her expression brightened hopefully. ‘Does that mean you will see me again?’

  He gently touched her lips, tracing their peachy outline. ‘The question is, will you see me?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Her eyes were bright.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded eagerly.

  ‘I’ll pick you up some time in the evening, but I’m not sure when. I’m filming at the moment, and we often run late. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she glowed.

  Rourke bent to kiss her lingeringly on the lips, ’Take care, Clare.’

  She felt as if she floated into the house, where the party was still in full swing, despite the lateness of the hour. She went straight up to her room, wanting to be alone to think about Rourke.

  But she didn’t get the chance, the door suddenly swinging open, slammed shut as her mother came into the room.

  She looked Clare over speculatively, noticing everything about her, from her windswept hair to the way her clothes clung to her damply. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded to know, her eyes flickering with fury.

  Clare licked her lips nervously, never having seen her mother like this before. ‘I—I went to the beach.’

  ‘With Rourke?’

  ‘I—Yes.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ her mother exploded, her face contorted with rage.

  Clare flinched as if she had hit her. Her mother usually treated her with amused condescension, treating her almost as if she were eight instead of eighteen. And until this moment she had been happy to let her do so, happy in her mother’s approval and affection. But it was different now, she was different. Rourke had made her feel like a woman, and she wanted to be treated like one, even by her mother.

  She turned to the dressing-table and began to brush the tangles from her hair. ‘I don’t know what you mean—’

  ‘Oh yes, you know,’ her mother swung her round. ‘Now listen to me, Clare, you are not to see Rourke Somerville again.’

  She swallowed hard, frowning her surprise at her mother’s vehemence. ‘You have no right—’

  ‘I have every right!’ her mother firmly interrupted. ‘The man is only interested in one thing—’

  ‘Maybe I’m interested in the same thing,’ Clare said defiantly, her head held high.

  Her mother went pale with rage, her hand swinging up to slap Clare furiously across her cheek. ‘Have you slept with him?’ She shook Clare roughly by the shoulders.

  ‘Not yet—’

  ‘And you aren’t going to!’ her mother snapped. ‘I want your promise here and now that you won’t see him again.’

  Clare’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, as she cradled her throbbing cheek. ‘I won’t give such a promise,’ she choked. ‘It’s unfair!’

  ‘Then you’ll come to England with me,’ her mother told her firmly.

  ‘I won’t!’ she cried. ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘Not to see Rourke you won’t,’ she was told grimly. ‘Now which is it to be, England with me, or your promise not to see Rourke again?’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’ Clare’s look was reproachful. ‘I thought Rourke was a friend of yours?’

  ‘He is. And that’s exactly the reason I don’t expect him to go around trying to seduce my daughter!’ Carlene’s mouth twisted angrily.

  ‘I’m eighteen, Mummy—’

  ‘And he’s thirty-four!’

  ‘But being eighteen gives me the right to decide whether or not that bothers me. And it doesn’t.’

  ‘That’s only too obvious—you’re only too obvious,’ her mother added contemptuously. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Clare. And once Rourke has taken what he wants he’ll leave you flat.’

  Her head went back rebelliously. ‘Maybe I’m willing to take that risk.’

  ‘But I’m not. I’ll have that promise, Clare, or you’ll be on the plane with me tomorrow.’

  Clare could tell by the determination in her mother’s face that she meant what she said. Indignation warred with the lifelong habit of falling in with her mother’s wishes. Those wishes had never seriously clashed with her own before, but she knew that for Rourke she would defy her mother a hundred times.

  ‘You don’t act this way about Gene,’ she delayed.

  ‘Gene is only a boy, and a gentleman, like his father,’ the last was said somewhat contemptuously, making her wonder if her mother’s relationship with Perry was as stable as she had thought it was.

  She wondered what her mother would say if she knew the ’gentleman’ she thought Gene to be had tried to make love to her on several occasions in the last few weeks. Not that there had ever been any doubt about her refusal, and Gene had accepted those refusals in good humour and continued to see her.

  But she couldn’t promise her mother she wouldn’t see Rourke, not when just to think about him made her pulse race. ‘What do you have against Rourke?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘I’ve just explained my reasons. He’s too old for you, too experienced.’

  ‘Maybe I like that.’

  ‘Well, I don’t!’ her mother snapped.

  ‘But, Mummy—’

  ‘Clare,’ Carlene interrupted firmly, ’I’ve given you the alternatives, my mind won’t be changed about this.’

  ‘All right.’ Clare put her hands behind her back, crossing her fingers, not liking to lie, but knowing she had to if she wasn’t to be taken away from Rourke. ‘I won’t see him again. There, are you satisfied?’

  ‘Oh, Clare!’ her mother hugged her. ‘I’m only doing what I think is best for you.’

  ‘Are you?’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Yes,’ her mother smiled now that she had the promise. ‘I worked with Rourke for a year, remember? I’ve seen him break too many girls’ hearts to want to see my baby one of them.’

  ‘You’re sure you aren’t jealous?’ Clare paled even as she asked the question, wondering what had made her say such a thing.

  ‘Jealous?’ her mother echoed sharply. ‘Why on earth should you say something like that?’

  ‘I—I’m sorry,’ she frowned. ‘I don’t know why I said it.’

  Several emotions flickered across her mother’s face, all of them too fleeting for Clare to recognise. Finally she smiled. ‘All forgiven, darling. I realise you’re upset. Rourke is such a devil. I’m sure he’s made you infatuated with him already.’ The last was almost a question.

  Clare forced a casual shrug, sure that her mother would drag her off to England anyway if she knew how deeply involved with Rourke she already was, how much she loved him. And she did love him, she felt only truly alive in his company.

  ‘He’s exciting to be with,’ she remarked casually.

  Her mother smiled. ‘You aren’t the first young girl to be flattered to be seen with a famous movie star. But Rourke is not for you, I doubt he’s f
or anyone.’

  And so her mother had gone off to England, quite happily believing Clare wouldn’t be seeing Rourke in her absence. Clare had hated the deception, but her love for Rourke was such that she had to be with him.

  And she had been with him, constantly for the next two weeks, until her mother had returned and she learnt the true reason why she hadn’t wanted her to see Rourke.

  But her mother had been right about one thing; Rourke hadn’t been for anyone. After five years he was still unmarried. She knew very little about his life these past years, except that he had branched out into directing, although he still acted too. Why not, she thought bitterly, he had a natural ability for it.

  And there would have been women, hundreds of them. In five years, at the rate Rourke got through women, it would have to be hundreds!

  ‘Does that meet your approval, Miss Anderson?’

  She was once again jolted out of her memories by the sound of Rourke’s voice. This time he was chillingly polite.

  She looked selfconsciously about the room, finding herself the cynosure of all eyes. She had no idea what Rourke had been talking about the last half an hour, just as she had no idea what was supposed to meet her approval.

  A delicate pink coloured her cheeks, and she licked her lips nervously. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she returned with equal coolness.

  By the tightening of his mouth she knew Rourke was aware of her inattentiveness. ‘I have just informed everyone,’ he emphasised the last, his eyes glacial, ’that only the most necessary staff will be present during the nude scenes. I was asking if that met your approval.’

  Clare swallowed hard. The nude scenes—how could he talk about them so calmly!

  Ever since she had learnt that he had taken Jason Faulkner’s place she had pushed the thought of those love scenes to the back of her mind. But now they came back with alarming clarity, Caroline and Gunther in bed together, making love.

  And just what did Rourke mean, did that meet her approval! Did he imagine she wanted everyone to see them in bed together?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘MISS ANDERSON?’ he questioned tautly.