She shied away from noticing how handsome he looked in brown fitted trousers and shirt. No man should look this good first thing in the morning, especially when she was feeling so vulnerable having just woken up from dreaming about him.
‘My pleasure.’ Rourke put the cup down on the side. ‘I have to make sure my leading lady is—happy.’
She looked up at him apprehensively, not liking the way he was looming over her. ‘I am happy,’ she said nervously.
‘Are you?’ he questioned huskily.
‘Of course—’
‘Then why were you so restless last night?’ he asked shrewdly.
Clare paled. ‘How do you know I was restless?’
‘I came in and looked at you,’ he stated calmly.
As quickly as the colour had left her cheeks it now flooded back. ‘You came in here and looked at me?’ she repeated disbelievingly.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed unconcernedly.
‘You just walked in here—’
‘Yes,’ he repeated impatiently.
‘You had no right—’
‘The way you were yelling I thought someone was attacking you.’
Her mouth twisted. ‘And I’m sure that bothered you.’
‘Yes,’ his eyes narrowed, ’as a matter of fact it did.’
‘Why?’ She pushed the bedclothes back, aware of the time passing even if Rourke wasn’t, and swung her legs to the floor, pushing her hair away from her face.
Rourke was watching her every movement. ‘Has anyone ever told you how good you look first thing in the morning? Of course they have,’ he impatiently answered his own question. ‘Well, I’m reinforcing that statement. You look—God, you look beautiful, Clare!’
She had no chance to move away as he lowered his body down on to hers, pushing her backwards as his mouth came down on hers.
To Clare it was as if the years were stripped away, her lips flowering beneath his, allowing him access to the moist warmth of her mouth. They were back in the beach-house, in Rourke’s bedroom, in Rourke’s bed—and once again she didn’t want his caresses to stop.
His lips moved from her mouth to her throat as he slipped her shoulder straps down her arms, pulling the nightgown down to her waist, her breasts bared to him now. He slowly slid down her body, capturing the full, taut nipple into his mouth. His teeth gently bit, his lips seducing—and all the time Clare was making little whimpering noises of pleasure in the back of her throat.
Rourke knew her body so well, knew all the pleasure spots, removing the nightgown completely now as his lips caressed a trail of fire over the flatness of her stomach, lingering over the softness of her inner thigh.
Clare gasped her pleasure, arching against him, the wildfire excitement of her body telling her that she was ready for his possession, that she wanted him, now.
‘Rourke,’ she pulled his head up to her, raining heated kisses on his throat and jaw, the masculine smell of his aftershave and the more sensual male smell of his body acting like an aphrodisiac on her senses. ‘Oh, Rourke …’ she groaned as his lips once more claimed hers, becoming fiercer as his passion rose to meet hers, the whole length of his body lying on top of her now, the feel of his clothing pleasurably abrasive on her heated flesh.
He pushed his knee between hers, pushing her legs apart as he lowered himself down between her thighs.
Clare moaned in her throat at this more intimate contact, wanting all of him. ‘Rourke, please—’ she watched in dazed stupefication as he levered himself up and away from her, bereft at the loss of his body from hers. ‘Rourke …?’ She looked up at him with hurt eyes.
‘Yes?’ he asked tersely, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets stretching the material revealingly across his thighs, showing that he was still aroused.
She frowned her puzzlement, reaching out a hand to him. ‘Why have you left me?’ she choked, finding she was unable to cope with this sexual disappointment, her whole body seeming to ache with repressed emotion.
His mouth turned back in a sneer. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’ he scorned.
She flinched as if he had hit her, feeling as if he had. ‘No …’ There was a wealth of pain in her voice.
‘Do you use the same routine with every man you sleep with?’
‘Routine …?’ she gasped.
‘Yes,’ he rasped, looking at her contemptuously as she bent down to pull the sheet over her nakedness. ‘Do you always ask in that way?’
‘Ask …?’ she blinked her bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand.’
He paced the room impatiently, shooting her disgusted glances. ‘Maybe you just do it without realising it.’
‘Do what?’ she cried her frustration, wondering what she had done to suddenly change this man from a passionate lover to a furiously angry man.
‘Beg, Clare,’ he snapped harshly. ‘You always beg! Five years ago you begged, last night with your fiancé you begged, and just now you begged again. Maybe you’ve just slept with so many men you don’t even know you do it. And damned fools that they are, those men probably think it’s them you really want. What is it, Clare?’ he scorned savagely. ‘Do we all look the same after a while?’
She was a sickly grey colour by this time. ‘Get out of here. Get out!’ her voice rose in hysteria.
‘Oh, I’m going,’ he sneered.
‘And don’t come through that connecting door again!’ she shouted after him.
Rourke paused at the door. ‘I’ll come through there any damned time I feel like it,’ he told her coldly.
‘No!’
‘Yes.’
‘You—you can’t,’ she protested, desperation in her voice. ‘What if Harvey should see you?’
‘Ah yes, Harvey. Remembered him, have you?’ he taunted scathingly. ‘The man you’re going to marry.’
‘I never forgot him!’ her eyes blazed at him. ‘I just—I just—’
‘You wanted me.’ His mouth turned back. ‘Well, sometimes it does us good to go without the things we want. I wanted you five years ago, but you ran away to England like the frightened little girl you were.’
‘And we both know why!’
‘Do we?’ he said wearily. ‘I didn’t, not at the time.’
‘I’m sure my mother told you!’
‘Mm—eventually. Get dressed, Clare,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s almost six-thirty.’
She refused to get out of bed until he had gone. ‘Make sure you close the connecting door,’ she ordered angrily.
‘I’ll do that,’ he nodded, quietly leaving the room.
Oh God, what had she done now?
CHAPTER SIX
CLARE hurried into the adjoining bathroom, not having much time to get ready if she wasn’t going to get the reputation of being late. She didn’t give herself time to think, to analyse what had happened this morning, knowing that to do so would only give her further pain.
She dressed in denims and a sun-top, applying no make-up, and brushing her hair up into a ponytail, knowing that once she reached Make-up and Wardrobe her whole appearance would be changed anyway. She hardly looked like someone from the 1950s at the moment!
Like most films she had worked on this one was being filmed out of sequence, the post-war scenes being filmed first, a lot of the pre-war scenes being shot in a studio, the Queen Mary having undergone a lot of changes since she had been painted grey and was known as the ’Grey Ghost’ during the six war years when she had acted as a troopship to hundreds of thousands of soldiers.
Of course the shipping line had tried to return the ship to its former state, but some of the changes made had been irreversible, the initials of hundreds of soldiers scratched into the wood of the walls in the area now known as Piccadilly Circus being one of them. Most of the ship’s walls had been covered to protect them, but the walls in this area were curved and almost impossible to cover. At the end of the war there had been thousands of soldiers’ initials scratched into the woodwork, making it necessary to cover i
t with pseudo-leather. It seemed a shame to Clare, but then it was one of the smaller prices to pay for war, she supposed.
This film had appealed to her because it was a love story with a difference, the story of Lady Caroline Hammond and Gunther Bernhardt, a well-do-to Englishwoman and a rich German industrialist. They had crossed the Atlantic together on the Queen Mary, but a couple of months after reaching New York, war had been declared between their two countries. It had been a war that had torn them apart, that had ripped their growing love asunder. Fifteen years later they were to meet again, also on the Queen Mary, but Lady Caroline was now married to a prominent English politician.
What Clare particularly liked about this story was the fact that Caroline and Gunther didn’t do what everyone considered ’right’, that this time they stayed together, in America, Caroline leaving her husband, Gunther leaving his beloved Germany. The story had depth, love—if only Rourke weren’t to play Gunther!
She came up with a start when she saw Rourke was once again sitting in her lounge area. ‘I thought I told you to get out,’ she said stiffly.
‘You did.’ He slowly stood up, moving with a grace of movement that reminded Clare of a dangerous feline. ‘And I got out of the bedroom. I also closed the connecting door,’ he mocked.
She flushed. ‘I meant after you,’ she said resentfully, her emotions still churning from their earlier encounter.
‘I know that,’ he gave a taunting smile. ‘But I thought if we both turned up late it wouldn’t look so bad for you.’
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘You did?’
‘Mm,’ he opened the door for her to leave. ‘After all, I am the reason you’re late.’
Colour flooded her cheeks as she was forced to remember the time she had spent with him on her bed. ‘I don’t want that to happen again,’ she told him abruptly, her head held high as they walked down the deserted corridor; most of the other passengers were still sleeping.
Including Harvey! She had betrayed him this morning, had let him down in the worst way possible.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ Rourke drawled at her side.
She gave him a sharp look, her eyes shadowed. ‘Wouldn’t what?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Tell Harvey about this morning.’
She flushed her resentment of his ability to read her thoughts; she never knew what he was thinking, a mask always over his inner feelings. ‘He has a right to know—’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes! Doesn’t my engagement mean anything to you?’ she snapped.
Rourke shrugged. ‘About as much as it means to you—and judging by your reaction to me fifteen minutes ago, that isn’t much.’
Clare stiffened. ‘I happen to love—and respect—Harvey very much.’
He seemed unimpressed with her claim. ‘Whatever you feel for him it obviously isn’t enough, not for you. I can guarantee that within six months of the wedding you’ll be looking round for someone new.’
‘I won’t!’ She was indignant.
‘You will,’ he said with certainty. ‘And just for the record, if it had been me last night and not your fiancé I would have taken you.’
She flushed. ‘I know all about your brute force!’
‘It wouldn’t have been brute force,’ he said harshly. ‘I didn’t hurt you this morning, did I?’
‘No …’
His mouth twisted. ‘I don’t usually hurt my women when I make love to them.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she scorned. ‘You just made me the exception.’
His face darkened ominously. ‘I never meant to hurt you, and you know it. You should have told me—’
‘That I was a virgin?’ she said shrilly. ‘And not the little film-star groupie you thought I was. To be paid for my services,’ she added bitterly.
‘Groupies don’t usually get paid, they do it for the glamour,’ he rasped. ‘And the money I left you was for a cab, nothing else. God, I knew you were no groupie!’
‘But you took me anyway.’
‘You asked me to, damn you!’ he said fiercely.
‘So I did,’ her tone was bitter. ‘And I lived to regret it.’
‘So did I,’ Rourke muttered.
‘What did you say?’ she asked sharply.
‘It wasn’t important,’ he dismissed bleakly.
He didn’t need to repeat it, she knew exactly what he had said. Why did he regret it? Could it be that her mother had actually been angry about his seduction of her, that that was in fact the reason he and her mother had broken up? At the time her mother hadn’t seemed at all concerned, and it had been this that had made Clare never want to see her again. But what if she had been wrong, what if her mother really had cared, had finished with Rourke on the basis of that?
‘Maybe it’s best that I kissed you this morning,’ Rourke remarked dryly.
‘I don’t happen to think so,’ she snapped.
He eyed her mockingly. ‘But how would it have looked to the others if you’d reacted on set to me like that?’ he drawled mockingly.
Colour flooded her cheeks. ‘You caught me unawares this morning,’ she told him coldly. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Won’t it?’ he taunted.
‘No!’
‘If you say so,’ he shrugged.
‘I do.’
‘I heard you quite clearly the first time,’ he mocked her vehemence.
‘As long as you realise I meant it.’
His mouth curled back into a mocking smile. ‘Whatever happened to Little Miss Cool I heard so much about?’
Clare wondered briefly who he had heard that description from, although it wasn’t so surprising, since the media often mentioned her coolness. Well, she wasn’t cool now, and she hadn’t been since meeting Rourke again.
‘I’m still here,’ she said tightly.
‘I wonder,’ he drawled.
* * *
Once her make-up was applied and she had on Lady Caroline’s clothes, Clare forgot all about being anything but Lady Caroline. She might be disturbed by working this closely with Rourke, but no one could dispute her professionalism.
Except Rourke! Nothing she did was good enough for him, so much so that by lunch-time she felt quite awful.
‘Whew!’ Rena collapsed into the chair next to Clare’s as they both ate a sandwich lunch and hot, strong coffee. The latter on Rourke’s orders—he said they all needed waking up! ’He’s being a bastard, isn’t he?’ she sighed.
Clare almost choked over her sandwich. The description was a little—colourful, even if it were true. She shrugged. ‘He wants it done perfectly, I can understand that.’
‘Oh, so can I,’ Rena grimaced. ‘But I haven’t noticed him pointing out any of dear Belinda’s faults.’
‘Belinda Evans?’ Clare frowned, glancing at the dark-haired actress who was playing the part of one of the other passengers on board. The other girl was petite and gaminely beautiful—and as Rena had pointed out, Rourke had had nothing but praise for her all morning. Clare hadn’t noticed it at the time, but she realised it now.
‘Maybe she’s the latest, hmm?’ Rena put into words what Clare had only been thinking.
‘Maybe,’ she agreed noncommittally, wondering why every conversation she had lately seemed to be about Rourke.
But she looked at Belinda with new eyes, noticed the way the other girl smiled coyly at Rourke, the way she touched him whenever she could. And Rourke didn’t seem to mind in the least, rather he seemed to like it.
By the end of the day Clare was glad to get away; her temples were aching—and mainly due to Rourke’s attentions to Belinda! And she hated herself for her jealousy.
How could she feel jealous about a man she despised, a man she had no respect for? She couldn’t, she wouldn’t.
‘Dinner?’ Harvey said cheerfully when he called for her at seven-thirty.
‘Lovely!’ She gave him a bright smile, already changed and ready to go. She had been aware of Rourke moving abou
t his suite for the last hour, and she had no intention of giving him the privilege of listening to any more conversations between Harvey and herself.
Harvey smiled. ‘I’ve booked a table at the Sir Winston.’
‘How English!’ she laughed as they moved out into the corridor, feeling protected with Harvey’s arm about her waist, the open admiration in his eyes.
She wore a black dress, very revealing, her only jewellery a slender gold chain. As she had looked at herself in the mirror she had been reminded of the chunky gold chain and medallion that Rourke had worn five years ago, that he still wore. It had felt warm against her breasts this morning, a warmth obtained from the man himself. But Rourke was cold, cold and calculated, and she refused to think about him tonight.
Harvey tucked her hand solicitously into the crook of his arm. ‘I believe Sir Winston Churchill travelled on the Queen Mary two or three times himself during the war.’
Her eyes widened. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Mm,’ he nodded. ‘The initial D-Day invasion plans were made on board.’
Clare gave him a teasing look. ‘I do believe you’ve swallowed the guide-book, Harvey!’
He gave her a sheepish grin. ‘I didn’t have anything to do this afternoon, so I took the tour round. It’s very interesting.’
They went through to have a pre-dinner drink in the adjoining bar, seated at one of the tiny tables in the dimly lit room, a piano player softly serenading them.
‘It makes you feel quite nostalgic, doesn’t it?’ Harvey said ruefully.
Clare pulled a face. ‘I’ve been living in the past all day.’
‘Rough, was it?’ His hand covered hers as it rested on the table.
‘A bit,’ she nodded. ‘Everyone was prepared to work with Jason, it’s a little difficult to work with—someone else.’
He squeezed her hand sympathetically. ‘Never mind, love. A good meal and you’ll feel much better.’
The restaurant had pictures of Sir Winston Churchill all over its walls. They sat alone at a table near one of the windows in the main part of the restaurant, having walked through two smaller rooms to get here.
Harvey was right, a good meal inside her and she did feel better, more relaxed, enjoying the warm friendliness of the restaurant staff.
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